Kill the Boy
by MovinTarget666
Summary: Bran is experimenting still with the abilities that he gained as the Three Eyed Raven. Recalling what had happened with Hodor, he attempts to do it again, but in the opposite direction. He succeeds, though not as cleanly as he would have liked
1. Ghost Knives

**Kill the Boy 1**

It was a dark night when the call came, a sudden and pained scream of "Jon!"

The cry roused the men of Winterfell to their swords and the women to their rooms, but more than anything it drew the attention of a power far greater than any of the people who resided in the ancient keep. From above, staring down at the happenings of Winterfell, the three-eyed raven showed all to the curious greenseer a thousand miles north. Brynden Rivers did not know what he was seeing, but he knew that his successor was responsible. Whatever the lad, Bran Stark, had managed to do some five or six years in the future, was now reshaping the course of history.

In the courtyard of the ancient seat of House Stark, Eddard Stark and his family rushed into the courtyard where Jon Snow, the bastard son he could not acknowledge this or any night the King was in the castle, was slowly crumbling to the ground. Above the falling boy, Benjen Stark was trying to check him over, get a look at him, and see what was wrong.

It was he who had cried for the boy, and it was he who say the sudden breaking of skin around his right eye, as though beast had clawed across his face. The boy, who had been expressing his desire to join the watch, had blinked at the pain and moved to raise a hand to it. Before he could do so, however, his chest collapse inward, as though struck with a great blow. Benjen had been unable to react, too confused even to think, before another spectral blow came, this time taking Jon in the back. There was a splattering of blood as the bastard of Winterfell spat, and the ground in front of him was coated.

It was then that Benjen had cried out, and drawn forth the attention of Tyrion Lannister first, then the revelers within the Great Hall. Ned, his son Robb, and the King pushed their way to the front of a rapidly growing crowd, and beheld just as Benjen did the terror that was happening to Jon Snow.

The boy was now on his knees, gazing at the assembled people with pain, and they watched in terrible fascination as the side of his face seemed to come open at a seam and start spilling blood. There was silence for a brief moment as nothing else seems to plague the teen. A sigh of relief echoes through the assembled crowd, and the King steps forward to try and see if the boy was still able to walk.

Before the massive monarch could step more than two feet from him, Jon is once more beset by wounds with no true culprit. His eyes widen as he stares up at the King, and he stops breathing for a full second, and then whispers out, "Olly?"

And then he falls, his face pale, and blood pooling out from beneath his clothes. Ned and Robb push past the King in their rush to their fallen family member's side, and then tear from him his shirt. They, and the gathered spectators, see ghastly wounds marring the boy's flesh; stab wounds, brought about by unknown and unseen daggers.

"No! Jon!" Father and son turn to see the younger of the Stark girls rush out of the crowd and before they can tell her to get away, she is beside them, cradling Jon's head, "No, please, what happened? Wake up! Jon, wake up!"

And as though he had been listening, Jon does. His eyes break open, filled with terror and confusion as a restorative gasp brings air into lungs destroyed not ten seconds before. The King, thinking that the terror is over, turns to the gawkers and orders, "off with you! The maester and the family can stay, the rest of you clear out, back to your du-"

Jon gives another pained and terror filled gasp, and his hand shoots into the sky, clawing at an unseen force holding him down, and then he is on his feet with a roar. The King turns from berating the assembly and with them watch as Jon Snow strides forward, and like a man possessed smashes a training dummy across the face. Even more startling is when the wooden dummy is ripped from the earth and the boy falls upon it, beating it with mindless ferocity.

Punch

Punch

Bash

Slam

Slam

Slam

And then he looks up, and he sees Lady Catelyn Stark and her first daughter Sansa. But it is not them he sees, clearly, it is something else. The pair, and the other Starks do not move as the bastard boy pulls himself with clear reluctance from the dummy.

"Well, that was certainly entertaining," The new voice finally seems to break the spell, and Jon Snow turns to Tyrion Lannister.

There is confusion at the sight of the dwarf, and then as the boy's eyes travel the men and women of Winterfell who had stood and watched his ordeal, the confusion grows. He blinks, tilts his head, and then as though realizing his lack of shirt for the first time, he rubs a hand across the now finished bleeding wounds on his chest.

It is not just the stabs, ten in total, that seem to have healed and scarred, but every mark that had grown on him in those terror filled ten minutes. Ned Stark climbs to his feet and steps over to him, "What happened?"

Jon's eyes meet his in a flash and to the Lord of Winterfell it looks as though the boy is frozen with horror at the mere sight of him. Ned straightens himself and nearly demands an answer, but the boy turns his gaze from him and sees the rest of the Starks assembled, as well as the King and a few stragglers, including the much interested Tyrion Lannister. It takes a moment for the sight to sink into the lad's head, Ned can clearly see, but the conclusion that he would come to was far from the one he expected.

"I'm dead, again," Jon nods to himself. He stares at the assembled Starks for a long second, and then turns to move to a nearby stool. He sits, and again stares at the Starks, and turns to Sansa first, "How were you… was it Littlefinger?"

Sansa furrows her brow, not sure who that was, nor how she should respond. Behind her, Catelyn narrows her eyes in anger that the bastard would accuse her friend Petyr of murdering her daughter.

Before the matriarch can begin her tirade against the boy, he sighs, "I suppose he had me killed first. More'n likely did it in m'sleep so I couldn't fight back."

"Why would my Master of Coin have had you killed, boy?" the King asks.

Jon looks up at Robert Baratheon as the man towers over him, he furrows his brow for a moment, clearly trying to remember who the man was. There was a solid moment of clear confusion as he tried to place the face, before finally he realized who the man of great girth was and told the fat king, "Not your Master of Coin, your grace. He didn't stay on long after your death."

"My death?" Robert asks, and his tone grows dangerous.

"Aye," The bastard nods, looking down at the destroyed dummy, and tilts his head at it. After a few seconds of thought he looks back up at the King, "I suppose it's the way of things, you don't see the world after it happens."

"And how are you so well versed in being dead?" Tyrion asks, stepping slowly around the King.

Jon blinks at the dwarf, who still stands a little shorter than him on his stool, "I'd not heard you were dead, Lannister."

"Well, I rather like living," The dwarf tells him, "So I work to avoid death as much as I can."

"I'm sorry it didn't work then," Jon tells him, remembering fondly his interactions with the short man when he had first gone to Castle Black. Years, experience, and his first death had tempered him to recall the man with fondness.

"As am I, clearly," Tyrion agrees, trying to play along with the boy's delusion, "But I must ask, why do you claim to be so well versed in death?"

Jon blinks slowly at him, and then taps one of his ten stab wounds, directly over his heart, "I've already been killed. I am just glad the Red Woman can't bring me back a second time. My body should be burnt by now."

Tyrion nods, "Understandable, I have heard the red priests and priestesses in Essos have strange powers."

"They do," Jon nods, and frowns, "And they burn children, if their god demands."

"A terrible faith, I'd much prefer a god of wine, or one of whores, I'm sure the King would agree."

"I'm sure he would, considering all that's happened, I would as well," The black haired boy slowly closes his eyes and takes a breath, "I am glad it's done."

"You're glad to be dead?" Tyrion asks, "Why? There is so much more to life than just death!"

"Maybe," Jon agrees, "but now I get to rest, no more wars, no more white walkers, no more betrayal. I can just… rest."

He looks more glad, more at peace with himself in that moment than he had in his entire life. It was a dark realization for the Starks, especially Catelyn, who had never realized how truly miserable the boy was underneath his silence acceptance of her hatred."

"White Walkers, you say?" Tyrion asks, trying to ignore the stiffening of the gathered Starks, "The ancient ice monsters beyond the Wall?"

Jon nods

"And you've fought them?" Tyrion asks, having noted the lad's use of war before Walker.

"Killed one, and watched as another raised a hundred thousand of the dead by just… raising his hands," Jon closes his eyes, shaking his head as he tries to forget that terrible moment on the boat, not a hundred yards from the Night's King.

"If you fought White Walkers, you must have joined the Watch," Benjen notes, looking into his nephew's eyes.

"Oh, aye, and a pretty lot they were," Jon frowns, and rubs his chest, "Try to do good, try to stay to your vows, try to save a thousand men women and children, and get stabbed in the heart as thanks."

"My brothers killed you?" Benjen steps back, horrified

"Yes," Jon nods, "They named me their Commander, trusted me to do what I thought was right, and Throne got them to kill me for it."

"Alliser Thorne killed you?" Benjen breaths deeply through his nose, trying to keep his anger in check.

The King is not so calm, "Thorne!? I should have gutted that Dragon Lover when I had the chance!"

"You may well get your chance, your grace," Jon notes, "He and the others should be by somewhere."

"You think you would go to where your assassins would go?" Tyrion asks

"I think the Old Gods don't care where we go after we die," Jon tells him, "They barely care where we go when we live."

There is a long moment after he says this. Each of the Starks try to think of something to say, something to better the boy's mood, even Lady Stark. Robert merely stares dumbly down at the lad, likening his mood to an old veteran of Barristan Selmy's calibre; the old knight was still the best, but he was tired of the fight. Tyrion was considering what question to ask next, for he had several, but the one that was most pressing was not asked by him.

"How do we die?"

Eyes move from Jon to Arya, and the young girl stands tall, not moving her eyes from her brother. When he looks up at her, she asks again, "How do we die?"

It takes him a long time to respond, long enough that Arya began to think he would not answer her. She took a step towards him, ready to ask again, but his raised hand stops her and he looks down, thinking, before he then starts.

"The King died first, though, I'm sure you recall it. I don't recall how, never learnt. I was at Castle Black, and all I knew was that the King had died on a hunt."

Robert frowns, upset that he was the first to die, but clearly knowing himself he believed the boy enough that he could understand dying in a hunt. He was a drunken lout, and he knew it. A hunt could easily spell the end of him.

"Father was next," Jon frowns, "He attempted to take up regency for the throne, hold it in Stannis's name and remove the Queen from power. Joffrey had him behedded."

"Stannis?" Robert asks as the Starks slowly shift in discomfort, "The fuck happened to my children?"

"They aren't your children, according to King Stannis, your grace," Jon looks up at him, "He told the entire kingdom that they were born of incest between your wife and the Kingslayer. I never bothered to confirm when I met him, it was not my business."

"Not your business?" Robert demands, anger forcing him to latch onto the boy so that he did not make the mistake of murdering his wife or her brother, or especially the brother closest at hand, "You said they murdered your father!"

"And I was a man of the Watch," Jon tells him.

Ned moves to his friend, sets a hand on his shoulder, and tells him, "I would hear the rest."

Robert turns to his brother, and the rage in his eyes dims momentarily and he nods, "Who dies next, lad."

"Robb and Lady Stark both die at the Red Wedding," Jon tells them after a moment, realizing that Bran and Rickon were not actually the next to die, "Betrayed by Walder Frey and Roose Bolton at Tywin Lannister's command. They told me they slit Lady Stark's throat, butchered Robb's wife, and Lord Bolton stabbed him in the heart himself."

Robb's eyes widen in horror, and he steps over to his mother to hug her as hard as he can. She, in turn, returned the embrace and dragged any of her children she could reach as close as she could get them."

Arya, rather than cling to her mother, hugs Jon and asks quietly, "Who was after that?"

"I was," Jon tells her, "As far as I know. No reports came of Bran, Rickon, or you dying that were confirmed. But you were lost when the men Father brought south were slaughtered and were not seen after. Bran and Rickon, for a long time, were thought to have been burnt to death by Theon who tried to prove himself more a Greyjoy than a Stark. I did not know that he had lied until years later. After my own death."

"How did you die?" Arya asks, cupping his face and speaking to him more gently than she had any other person in her life.

"I let the Wildlings through the Wall," Jon told her, "It was that or let them die against the White Walkers and join the army of the dead. So I saved them from that, and in return my brothers murdered me."

"And you said a Red Priestess brought you back?" Tyrion asks, deciding that he might as well know, seeing as it was better to die informed than ignorant. Chances were that he would be dying, judging by the anger in the King at learning of Cersei and Jamie's betrayals.

"Melisandre, advisor to King Stannis," Jon supplies, "She left him when he lost the battle for Winterfell and she burnt Princess Shireen, and came to the Wall. She brought me back at the bidding of Ser Davos Seaworth."

Jon shakes his head, "And then… and then you came to Castle Black."

Sansa, caught in her mother's embrace, forces her way free and stares at Jon. The boy, who she had not been as kind as the rest of her siblings to, was looking at her as though she were the last drink of pure water in a desolate and burning desert. After a moment he turns from her and looks to Lord Stark.

"After your death she'd been hostage, then married to," He nods to Tyrion, "And then she was spirited from King's Landing after King Joffrey was assassinated, by Littlefinger. She was brought to the Eyre, then sold to the Boltons, again by Littlefinger. She was wed to Ramsey Bolton, Lord Bolton's Bastard, and he was a monster. It was while there that she learnt that Theon had not killed Bran or Rickon."

Catelyn, hearing the fate of her elder daughter, falls to the ground, her legs collapsing under her. She is slowed in her descent by Robb and Bran, who had remained in her embrace. Jon closes his eyes, recalling the terror of his only interaction with Ramsey Bolton before the battle.

"Rickon died next," Jon tells them, "I do not know if Bran died before or after, but Ramsey was given Rickon by the Umbers and killed him in front of me. It… was a battle… for Winterfell. We won, but Rickon was lost, along with near a thousand good men under my command."

He frowns, rubs his face, and for the first time in the telling of his story, feels the chill of the night. He had been cold for a long time already, but it felt like this was the first time the cold was creeping at his skin, etching its way across his frame, demanding his attention. It felt like the first time he went North of the Wall.

"And then you believe you were killed by Petyr?" Catelyn, who had at least regained the ability to speak, asks.

"I was named King in the North," Jon tells her, "Robb's heir to the northern throne, and Sansa told me that Petyr wanted Westeros to himself. With everything she told me of the man, I would not put it past him to have me killed."

He sighs, and stands, and starts to leave.

Robert Baratheon catches him with a hand against his chest, "Where do you think you're going, boy?"

Jon looks up at him, and it is not a child that looks at the King of the Seven Kingdoms, it is a man; the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the Bastard of Winterfell, the King in the North.

Lord Snow.

"I'm dead, your grace," He says calmly, "I'm going to do as the dead should, and rest."

Robert's arm falls slowly, and he watches with the Starks and Tyrion Lannister as Jon Snow enters the keep in hunt of bed.


	2. Descisions

**Kill the Boy 2**

Winterfell was deceptively quiet.

The Royal family, with the exception of Tyrion Lannister and the King himself, had been confined to their chambers. Jamie Lannister was equally entrapped, having been told to guard the family and then locked inside the room with them. It had been a simple task to get them imprisoned, but now the issue lay in how to deal with them.

Ned had been shocked when Rob had not demanded the Kingslayer and his wife executed as soon as Jon had left the courtyard. There had been a brief moment of dark silence before the King had turned to the Starks and single Lannister, "The Lannisters will be locked in their rooms. Not you, Imp, I'm going to need you. We will… talk… in the morning."

They were quick to disperse, and Ned went to the Great Hall to apologize to the revellers that the King and the Starks were not feeling well enough to enjoy the festivities after the dark events of the last half hour. The party, very much on the decline already, was quick to end, and it was then that the Royal Family and Jamie Lannister were imprisoned.

Dawn broke across the castle, and it opened with the King and his new Hand sitting opposite each other in the Lord Stark's solar. The light of dawn cast heavy shadows throughout the room as it shone through the window, and the King's own mood was in a similar mind. He was a man of extremes, he knew this, but he also knew that his kingdom was owed entirely to the Lannisters.

He had successfully paupered the Kingdom during his rule, something none but himself knew was completely intentional. He hated the Iron Throne, proabably just as much as any same Warden. He despised that it was a symbol of Targaryen rule, that the Targaryens had stolen the love of his life from him, that Lyanna was dead and now he was wed to a incestuous whore.

"What do I do, Ned?" He asks, quietly. The light is more bright, the shadows deeper, and his own words louder than they had been in years.

He was fully sober for this meeting.

"I don't know," Ned admits.

Both men had been up all night thinking on the issue, trying to determine the best course of action. Scenarios flew through their heads and both in their own time had come to the conclusion that they couldn't make the mistake of thinking that Tywin Lannister would forgive them if they did anything deadly to his favored son. His daughter and grandchildren were also something he wouldn't forget an insult for.

"My Lords," They turn their eyes to the third man of their conference, Tyrion. The dwarf frowns, clenches his fists against his armrests, and after a moment he takes a breath and tells them, "Send my brother to the wall, there is no other way that you can punish him without bloodshed. Strip my sister of her name Baratheon, return her to Lannister, and do the same for the children. Tommen and Myrcella are innocent parties in this business, do not make them suffer for the crimes of their parents."

"And Joffrey?" Robert asks.

"Is a monster, as well you know," Tyrion closes his eyes and unclenches his fists, "He should join his father on the wall."

"What of Cersei?" the King asks, "Should I just strip her of our marriage, because I'll be plumb fucked before I let her get off that easy!"

"Send her to the silent sisters," Tyrion suggests, "Or send a Raven to my father and demand he contemplate a punishment for himself. He will be more than furious with her than you can be. I know you hate her, but my father expected things of her."

"It seems Lord Lannister expects things of everyone," Ned inputs, frowning, "And often gets them."

"He does," Tyrion nods, "I would also recommend you declare the debt to my house void for her crime. It will be enough that my father may demand her death himself."

"You despise your sister enough that you would condemn her to death?" Ned asks

"Ha, you've never seen them in the same room," Robert grunts, "She hates him more than anyone does another person."

"I've lived with my sister's derision long enough that I feel much the same for her," Tyrion admits, "but I love my nephew and my niece."

"Aye, they're good children," Robert nods, "I'd not have them suffer for your whore sister."

Tyrion and Ned raise eyebrows at the King, but say nothing. After a moment, Tyrion licks his lips, "On the subject of my niece, you know that my father will… retaliate… if you make a move against my family. I suggest you find one of your bastards of suitable age and marry him and Myrcella. I know there is one in King's Landing near her age."

"What?" Robert narrows his eyes at the imp, "You want me to what?"

"Marry one of your bastards to my sister's bastard," Tyrion tells him, "It is an insult, but it may be enough that my father does not try to retaliate."

"Are we truly so afraid of Tywin Lannister?" Ned asks.

"You heard what he arranged?" Robert demands, "He kills your wife and your son, Ned. I'll not let that happen!"

Ned takes a breath, "I'd not forgotten, but I also know that it hasn't happened, and now it never will."

"Aye, it never will, and we are going to make sure of that, right here, right now," Robert tells him, "Gods above, Ned, you're closer to family than Stannis or Renly, I'll not lose you like I lost…"

Ned and Tyrion watch as the King lapses into melancholy. The silence between the three is far from comfortable, nor even calm. There is a tension, permanently etched between them. The King had always resented his Lannister bride, and it seemed that she had resented him just as furiously. There was a poison in the King, one that was finally draining out. He knew, in his heart, that he was the problem with the Seven Kingdoms. He also knew that when he died it would all fall apart, as he had planned, but that it would take Ned with it.

That was not something that he wanted. He had wanted the collapse of the Kingdoms to be sudden and unavoidable, but something that only plagued the south and the fucking dragon lovers. Now he had to survive and bind the kingdoms he had spent seventeen years forcing apart back into the fold. And he could not do it with Ned Stark at his side.

Ned would be destroyed by King's Landing, and Robert wouldn't let that happen.

Thoughts rolled around his head for five agonizing minutes, traveling faster than they had ever before, pushed on by a sober rationalism. He knew that the Imp was right, in that he couldn't kill Tywin's golden children or incite war with the Westerlands. He did not want to give them a chance to escape, though, but he knew that he had to think of something quickly. Eventually, he decides to ignore the Lannister's suggestions, though. The dwarf had clearly thought himself in circles, as had he and Ned, but he had not stopped his drinking as he thought.

"They will be taken back to King's Landing," He tells them, "And I will give the issue to the Wardens of the Seven Kingdoms. They will judge the Lannister Twins. I name the three incest born children as Hill, but they shall accompany their parents as far south as they go, where the Wardens will determine their final destination as they will determine the fates of Cersei and Jaime Lannister."

He looks up, having been talking to his own stomach, and tells the two men staring at him with shock, "I do not trust myself to make a reasonable decision, thus I take final punishment out of my own hands."

Tyrion nods, and slides from his chair, "What do you wish for me to do, your grace?"

Robert looks down at the Imp, "You're right that your father will be livid, maybe enough to declare war. You're to stop that, I name you my Hand."

Tyrion blinks and takes a step back in shock, "What?"

"I can stand you, and you understand the viper's nest of the capital better than Ned ever will," Robert tells him, "And I'll not bring my best friend there to die."

"Ah, yes, the… beheading," Tyrion nods, "Let's avoid that."

Ned stands, "If that is all, your grace?"

"It is," Robert looks to him, looking more broken than he had the day he learnt of Lyanna's fate.

"I wish to see how Jon fares," Ned tells him.

Robert nods, and waves him away, "off with you, see how your boy is."

Ned nods and moves around his desk to the door, opening it and stepping out. In the early morning bustle of Winterfell he moves silently through the halls. Servants move around him like ghosts in the night, easy in step around their beloved lord. As he walks he looks about the old stonework, taking in that if he had traveled south he would never have seen his home again. It would have been amongst his last thoughts, he was sure, that he would never lay eyes on this old haven.

He nearly passes completely by the royal apartments, but there is a call from the other side, "Hello!?"

"Lady Lannister," He stops, but does not open the door.

"Lord Stark?" She asks, recognizing his voice.

"Aye, My Lady."

"I am the Queen," she declares, not phased by his use of her maiden name, "You will address me as such!"

"I'm afraid you are no longer, Lady Lannister," He tells her, "Your brother or Robert will be along to explain to you what has happened shortly."

"Shortly is a truly ironic word in this instance," Ned turns to see Tyrion striding towards him, "Lord Stark, I would appreciate the chance to tell my family the news myself."

The Lord of Winterfell nods in acceptance, and unbars the door for the imp. There is a shove from the other side, and Cersei pops out, nearly losing her feet in the exercise. She straightens, narrowed eyes boring holes into each of their heads, "Well?"

"We may wish to go inside," Tyrion tells her, "I do not think you wish your dirty laundry aired for all to hear."

The former Queen, though still ignorant of that, looks down at her despised brother, and nods. Ned watches as they enter the room, and the Imp tells him, "Lord Stark, if you would bar the door behind us? I've already told Ser Barristan to come for me in half an hour."

Ned bars the door as it shuts, and sets off again towards Jon's room.

When he reaches the door, he knocks. There is no response, and Ned tries to push it open, and feels the easy give of the door sliding open. Inside the room, it is as bare as it ever was; Starks were not a family of ornamentation. On the bed, Jon lay, eyes fixed upon the ceiling.

The Bastard of Winterfell looks at it as though he stares at the greatest of spectres. It seems as though there were never any greater horror or beauty as what was adorned above him. But there was nothing above him, merely stone of a mixed palette of grey. Beside him, Ghost slept softly, creating a lasting feeling of warmth and comfort.

He does not look up at the door's opening, nor at Ned entering. He wants to, to see that he is yet to wake from this dream. There is a surety in his heart, though, that when he turns his eyes there will be nothing but spirits to haunt him.

"I could have joined Robb," He says at last, though he isn't sure why he is making the effort to explain more, "You died, and we received word before I took my vows. I could have left, and joined Robb on the field. I could have been there to help him. Instead I stayed on the Wall."

"Do you think you did the right thing?" Ned asks

"I thought I had," Jon tells him, eyes never wavering, "And then I broke my vows and loved Ygritte. And then I broke her heart and returned to the Watch, and then my own was broken when she was slain to protect me. And then I broken an unspoken rule and saved as many Wildlings as I could. And then i was broken, and murdered by my brothers in the Watch. I should have joined Robb. I should never have left Winterfell."

"None of us should do many things we do," Ned notes, and sits at the bed, thinking of the ever present promise, but knowing that he couldn't tell his son the truth.

"I remember the last conversation we ever had together," Jon tells him, thinking back, "It was at the King's Road, at the break between going north and south. I asked you for the last time about my mother, and you told me that the next time we spoke, we would talk about her."

Ned nods, and even if he had not made that promise in this life, he would still keep it, "And do you wish to know?"

"No," Jon tells him, and the honorable Ned Stark doesn't know how to think of that.

The truth was on his lips, he could taste it, and he was tempted to tell the boy all the same, but the nagging promise stayed with him, holding his tongue. All he did was nod to the boy, though he knew Jon was not looking his way, "Very well. When you're ready."

Jon, for the first time, looks at his father, "Until then, my Lord."

Ned nods, "Until then."

He stands, and stares down at Jon Snow. The boy, turned into a man in the space of a terrible night, was in a new shirt. It hid his new scars, which were at the same time old. It hid the terror of the night before, and all that was clear was that there was something different in his demeanor.

He did not ask useless questions, anymore. That is what Ned realized, because in his mind he was a collection of experiences that began after leaving Winterfell. The bothers of life in the keep were not those of this Jon Snow. Winterfell afforded a simple life, a comfortable life, and for everything that was wrong with it, it was infinitely better than fighting and dying with men who will do nothing but murder you in the dark.

Jon Snow was a broken man, held together by the memory of home, one he was now in. He needed something new to cling to, and until he found that he would remain here, in this room, broken.

"You say you loved a woman?" Ned asks

"Aye, Ygritte," Jon nods, closing his eyes as he remembers his love, the beautiful girl kissed by fire.

"Where is she?" Ned asks, thinking that she may be enough to break the boy from his dark depression.

"Beyond the Wall," Jon tells him, "Gathering clans with Mance Rayder for an assault."

"And you let them through?" Ned clarifies, recalling what had been said the night before of this matter, "After they lost against Stannis?"

Jon nods, eyes still closed.

"I have a task for you, Jon," Ned tells him after a long moment of thinking.

Grey eyes open to regard the Warden of the North, listening.


	3. Reactions

**Kill the Boy 3**

There was a grey horizon clinging to the sky above Winterfell as the day after Jon Snow's resurrection. To those who had witnessed it could be called nothing else, and for the Stark family the day was not to be a happy one. The patriarch had spoken both with the King and with the young bastard, but not to the rest of the family, and so they did not know how to truly take the events of the previous night.

It came to pass that as the noonday sun passed above the clouds and turned the world a pale grey, they were gathered about their dining table. Catelyn, Robb, Bran, Sansa, Arya, and even Rickon were seated around the large wooden table, ignoring the breakfast that had long since gone cold. With the exception of young Rickon, who did not truly understand the events of the previous evening, none had touched a single morsel available.

Catelyn, for all her faults when it came to the bastard, no longer wished him dead; she had learnt her lesson on that matter many years ago. She had stood and watched as the boy had appeared to die in front of her, and then he had accused her best childhood friend of murdering her daughter and himself. She knew that she could not let that stand, but at the same time, he was not angry at the thought of being dead. That was the terrifying thing for her. Jon Snow was relieved to be dead, as though the joys of life were nothing but pain and misery.

She could not help but wonder if it was just the experiences that he had that came with his injuries that inured him to the pleasures of life. Was she so terrible that the boy would rather take death than live a long life, one filled with possibilities? She knew she had not been kind to him, but could not bring herself to believe that she was that terrible. She did not go out of her way to be cruel, she simply ignored the bastard, as was her right. She hated everything he represented, and she knew that she was not morally responsible for anything that the boy did or did not do.

But, seeing him as he had been the night before, reminded her that he was still a child. Reminded her that he was brother to her children, if not her son. She did not like him, and never would, but she would not add to the suffering that he had already gone through.

Beside her, her eldest son was having a similar yet different contemplative debate. Robb was a smart lad, and was as good with his mind as he was with a sword. He was working through everything that Jon had told the family, in precise detail, trying to figure out how he would have ended up dead at the Twins with his mother. If he could avoid that; he could save his family from any dark fate that awaited them.

The first circumstance, the one that clearly set everything in motion, was more than likely the King dying. He was a fat man, drunk and lazy, and dying in a hunt would be understandable if he were drunk enough. The King dying would lead to his father dying, no doubt, should the man have learnt of the Queen's affair before the King's death. If that were the case, and his father tried to wrest power from the Queen, and hold it for one of the King's brothers, then he and the entire household that went with him would have been killed.

He himself would have had no choice but to call the banners, which probably led to him heading south, which then resulted in some form of interaction with the Twins. Walder Frey controlled the two keeps on either side of the river, and no doubt if Robb wanted to move fast he would have had to make a deal with the man. Walder Frey's reputation was well known, even this far to the North. Robb had heard his father, mother, three visiting Lords, and the entire Manderly line complain about the Late Lord Frey more times than he could count. The old lord would make a demand.

And then he, along with the Boltons, would turn on him. The Boltons were a bit of a shock, but there were probably mitigating circumstances that Jon didn't know about that led to the betrayal. Lord Bolton was a loyal bannerman, and Robb had friendly with his son Domeric before the lad's death the single time they'd met when father had taken Robb to visit the banners. Lord Bolton did not seem the man to easily betray his lord, not without good reason. Clearly, Robb had been losing the war, and as a result, the Lord of the Dreadfort had acted as he thought best befitted the North to end the fighting.

Thus the hope now lay in keeping the King from dying, or his father from going south. Though the circumstances of their deaths as Jon had told them were unlikely to happen now that the affair had been revealed, the chances were still present that if his father journeyed south, he would not come back.

Across from her brother, Sansa was in a similar state of mind, trying to figure out how her life could go so bad that she would end up married twice, once to a man as stunted as Tyrion Lannister, and then to a monster, as Jon called Ramsey. Was it because all she wanted, for such a long time, was to wed the prince? Was it because she didn't think anything of the thousand petty cruelties she'd seen him express already? Thinking of the prince now, not as a golden haired boy only a few years older than herself, but as a yellow haired bastard, she could see the darkness in his heart.

Why was it that she had allowed herself to be blinded so easily? She knew Jon's heart was good, even if she followed in her mother's footsteps and ignored him most days. He was a good man, an honest one, and he was a bastard. Joffrey Baratheon, upon more than a moment's reflection, was terrible. She, thinking of it, realized that she blinded herself deliberately of things that told her the truth of the prince. It would happen no longer, for if she stayed her course she would be wed to two men, both of which were far from ideal.

Bran, next to Sansa, was trying to keep Rickon distracted as the rest of the family was trapped in their own thoughts. He knew that he should take time to think of matters, contemplate the truths that Jon had told them, but at the same time he already knew them to be true. It was as though a second instinct he never knew existed was reaching out the night before, and as Jon told his tale in the broken way that he did, that new sense filled in the details. Bran knew how his father would die, how all three of his brothers would die, and he knew that Sansa, Arya, and himself were still alive by the time Jon had come to experience his progression.

For that was what it was. Jon was no longer the fourteen year old lad that he had been before yesterday's feast. He had aged six years in the span of ten minutes. It wasn't clear to the rest, but Bran could see it. Even if his half-brother had not aged physically more than a day, his mind was older, his emotions more muted, and time had destroyed the boy he once was. It was a sad thing, but at the same time, Bran could tell that his family may have averted tragedy because of this.

Silence was a terrible thing, for it gave everyone time to stew in their own misery. When the lunch hour was done, and still there seemed no movement, it finally fell to Arya to make the first sound, and told Robb, "You're going to teach me how to fight."

The elder brother blinks and looks down at her, "Excuse me?"

"You're going to teach me how to fight," Arya repeats, "We all saw what happened to Jon, and we all heard him. I am not going to die because you or mother or anyone thinks it's not a woman's place."

"Arya-" Catelyn begins, but Arya is quick to cut her off.

"No," She saw slapping the table, "I don't want to die, and being able to fight will keep it from happening. I will not get gutted like Robb's wife, or die like you do."

"Arya!" The voice of Ned Stark drags their eyes to him, and they see him enter the Great Hall with Jon, "You will not speak of your mother that way, nor your brother's… future wife."

He frowns as the words come out, and he works hard not to turn his head to the gawking servants. Jon Snow has no such hesitation, looking at them all with a sort of wide eyed disbelief. The bastard moved slowly behind his father, and broke from him to sit at his usual spot a table away from the regular family.

"Jon," Ned turns back to him, "Join us, you're going to be a part of this discussion."

The bastard nods, stands, and moves to sit next to Arya. They share a tight hug before Ned, having taken his seat next to his wife, speaks, "I am sending Jon north of the Wall, and he will carry Ice with him."

The news is shocking to the family, both for the fact that he was sending Jon away, and that the ancestral blade of the Starks was going with him. Arya was the first to vocalize her incomprehension, "Why would you do that?"

Ned looks at his daughter and smiles, "I am not sending him to the wall, Arya, I am sending him past it."

Robb, quicker on the uptake, furrows his brow and asks, "The Wildlings?"

His father nods.

"Jon is going to try and bring them south?"

"I am," Jon speaks, his voice a hoarse echo of what it once was, but still strong in its own right, "I will treat with Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, and offer him and his people the right to settle in the New Gift."

"Wildlings have been raiding our lands for years," Catelyn notes, "I don't think the Umbers would agree to this."

"I will not give them a choice," Ned tells her, "They give my son to the man that kills him, I won't take much of their advice into account for a long while."

"A dangerous precedent, father," Robb tells him, "If you start acting on what could have been, you may bring it to pass."

"Aye, but I don't forgive so easily," Ned grunts.

"Mance cares about his people," Jon tells the family, "They won't bend the knee, and never will, but if it means safety from the White Walkers, they'll be willing to stop their raiding."

"Ned!" Eyes turn to see the King, having finally pulled himself from his chair in Ned's office, lumbering towards them, "We need to talk."

"In a moment, your grace," Ned tells him.

"Why, what are you talking about here?" Robert demands.

"I am sending my son North, to treat with the Wildlings," is the reply.

"Mm, right, the damn undead are coming," Robert rubs his beard and grunts, "We'll talk once you're done."

Ned nods, then turns back to the family, "Jon will be accompanied by ten of our best men, and he will carry Ice in case he is attacked by more than just Wildlings. He leaves on the morrow with Benjen, say your goodbyes while you can. We all know how quickly things can change now."

He steps away from the table and follows after his friend. The King leads him out of the castle and down towards the crypt. Ned's thoughts turn again to an old promise as they descend into the resting place of his family. His eyes do not wander though, for his attention must remain on Robert.

"I've been thinking about Jon," the King says as they move through the crypts, the inevitable destination up ahead.

"What of him?" Ned asks, "He's a good lad, and aside from what happened last night, quiet."

"Aye, just like you at his age," The King agrees, "But your magical bastard isn't the Jon I'm speaking of."

"Jon Aryn," Ned realizes.

"Aye," Robert agrees, "It hit me, after you and the Imp had left, that Jon died suddenly, and that he and Stannis had been in each other's company quite a lot recently."

"You think they learnt of your wife's betrayal together?" Ned asks.

"I do," Robert stops in front of Lyanna's statue, as he did yesterday, "Pycelle has always been a creature of the Lannisters, he could have easily made Jon's condition worse."

"You kept Pycelle on your council?" Ned asks, an eyebrow raised.

"I didn't have many options, and for all his vices he was a good physician," Robert explains.

"Until you think of what he may have done to Jon."

The king nods, "Aye. Which is why I think Cersei may have had him help Jon into the grave."

"You don't think the Kingslayer would have done it?" Ned asks, his old disparity of Jaime Lannister still present after all these years.

"No, Lannister is a blunt cunt," Robert shakes his head, "And he lacks the imagination to pull something like this off."

"And the younger brother?"

"Hates his sister enough that if he knew, he'd probably have told me himself."

Ned shakes his head, truly not understanding how a family could despise itself so much. He knew the same animosity existed between Robert and his brothers, and seemed to permeate the south. He just could not understand it. Even knowing what Lyanna had done, and what it had lead to, he could feel nothing but love for her. The darkness in these southern families was so intensely troubling, and even his wife was infected with it, what with her attitude towards Jon.

"Anyway," Robert waves a hand, "That's only one of the reasons I brought you down here."

"And what is the other?" Ned asks.

"Did you hope I wouldn't look at the boy too long, Ned?" Robert asks, "That I wouldn't see her in his face?"

Ned narrows his eyes, but says nothing.

"I memorized every detail of her face, Ned. I knew every contour of it," Robert grunts as he sits against the wall and turns his head to Lyanna's statue, "And I knew every contour of his, as well. I told you, I kill him every night in my dreams."

"You did," Ned agrees.

"Jon Snow isn't your bastard, is he Ned?" Robert asks, "He's hers?"

Ned doesn't say anything, but after a moment he nods stiffly.

"Why didn't you tell me!" Robert bounces to his feet with a roar, "I deserved to know!"

"Because of how you looked at the children," Ned tells him, honestly, not moving from his position even as Robert nearly presses their faces together.

"They were dragonspawn, Ned!" Robert growls, spittle flying from his mouth and leaking onto his beard.

"And so is Jon."

Robert blinks at him, eyes narrowing, head tilting, and then he steps back. He turns to look up to the still statue of the woman he could have married. He blinks a few more times, turns back, and then nods, "I would have killed him."

Ned nods, his hand clasping tightly to his sword belt, then offers, "That was a different time for us. I couldn't risk it."

Robert doesn't notice the tension, all he does is start walking out of the crypt, leaving behind many ghosts and telling his friend, "I guess times change."


	4. The Feast

**Kill the Boy 4**

Winterfell's great hall was large enough to hold near a thousand people, and it was near packed to the brim as the King ate his last lunch in the seat of the North. He looked across the hall, noted with his eyes each of the Starks, his wife and her family, and then they lay on the boy. Jon Snow was troubling, a child of the man he hated and the woman he loved.

Ned was right to keep the truth from him, but now that he knew, there was nothing his old friend could do to stop him from what was about to happen. The man knew it too, merely given Robert that steel glare that never worked.

The fat king set down his wine goblet, his sobriety having been merely a brief event after the incident. Eyes turn towards him as he pulls himself to his feet. There are glares from the Lannister twins, both chained to their table, curious looks from the smallfolk, and a few extra glances between people in the know.

"I want to thank Lord Stark for this hospitality!" he starts, and then he smiles and picks up his goblet in toast. He is joined by near everyone and after the customary shouting has subsided he continues, "Now, many of you have probably already realized that I came here to ask Ned to by my hand. Unfortunately, circumstances have conspired so that he is not my choice."

Many of the people of Winterfell quickly glance at the Lord in question, and those who are swift enough see that Lord Stark gives the king a deferential nod. With the decision revealed to be mutual, eyes return to the king and Robert declares, "I am instead making Tyrion Lannister my Hand."

That gets some startled looks, drawing eyes this time to the dwarf who stood from his seat beside Robert. He was such a small man, and hidden so expertly behind a cooked slab of venison, that nearly none had realized he was present. The dwarf gives a bow of his head to the King, but does not reply verbally.

The people who knew of the Queen's derision of her brother turned their eyes then to her, and saw with certainty that she was not pleased with this turn of events. Beside her though, the Kingslayer had a contented smile as he nodded in appreciation for his brother's new position. It was with this new attention placed on them that most finally realized that they had been chained together.

Many eyes widened, including those of Sandor Clegane. The Hound had not realized that the royal family was in the shit, his charge having sent him off to, in his own works, 'Find a bitch to fuck, that's what Hounds do after all.' So he'd spent the last two nights with a whore named Ros and only came back earlier in the morning at the King's orders. Now he was unsure how to act, as it didn't look like the Royal shit was in any trouble, but the other two Lannisters were. He decided to take a wait and see approach, mostly because he didn't like his odds against a room of Northerners.

"I.. see you've all noticed the Queen's state," Robert notes, drawing eyes back to him. He sniffs heavily, frowns, and then sighs, "I could keep you all in suspense, but the kingdom will know soon anyway."

There is a tense silence, people trailing their gazes from Robert to Cersei, and back again. Most noticed that the Queen looked petrified at the thought that the king was about to reveal some terrible secret. When this was noticed, eyes turned back to the King with burning curiosity.

Robert saw their eyes, their thirst to know, but he would have to sate them with a lie, "It has been revealed that the Queen has indulged in Adultery, in a years long affair that my Kingsguard Jaime Lannister has spent much of his time in my service covering up."

Gasps from the ladies of the court can be heard throughout the hall, and eyes snap to the Queen, who looks at Robert with the kind of hatred reserved for beggars and wildlings. Beside her, Jaime Lannister frowns at the judgemental glares of most of the knights, and he smirks when he sees even the great Ned Stark gazing at him balefully.

"Now, I am enraged," Robert tells the gathered crowd, eyes again moving to him, "But after consulting both with Lord Stark and Lord Lannister, we have decided that I am too close to this matter to judge it effectively without inciting a war that none of us want. Instead, my wife, her brother, and her children who may not even be mine will return with me to King's Landing. Once there, I shall call all of the Wardens, Lord Tywin Lannister among them, to decide their fates."

Muttering permeated the hall, people wondering where their angry and rash drunken king had gone to. It was true, Robert was acting strangely, but you do not act as you normally would when you are haunted by ghosts.

And on the subject of ghosts, he was about to bring more than a few up. He cleared his throat and banged his goblet on the table, "The matter is settled! For now I have another thing that must be done."

Quiet fills the hall, and none can help but wonder where the King intended to go next. He took a deep breath and said, "Jon Snow, step forward."

The bastard of Winterfell, who had been in the back of the hall, silently watching the goings on of the king's court and gently sipping from his own drink, turns his gaze to the king with solemn resignation. He didn't know what the fat monarch had in mind, but no doubt it would put off his plans to travel North with Benjen and the Stark men who would accompany him. He stands slowly, setting his glass down before moving in front of the King's table.

"Boy, do you know your mother?" Robert demands.

"No, your grace," Jon sighs, not sure what to expect, but certainly not an interrogation about a dead woman who his father never spoke of.

"Well I do," Robert tells him, and Jon's eyes furrow. His father had never told Jon, nor anyone else, much about the woman who birthed him, but now the king knew? Robert nods at his incredulity, "I loved her, but she did not love me. Now, seeing you, I can see that she wasn't taken from me or the Starks, that she went with love in her heart."

Jon's furrowed brows lead down to narrowed eyes now, trying to place what the king is saying. He is much slower than most in the room, for though he was in Winterfell now, in his mind he still dwelt years ahead, when old wars were not what mattered anymore, only the new ones did. For the rest of the men and women in the hall, it was obvious what the King was getting at, and they were beginning to wonder if this was where his famous rage would be released.

Robert would disappoint them, though, as he told Jon, "Your mother was my betrothed, Lyanna Stark. Your father was not Ned Stark, but Rhaegar Targaryen."

Jon slowly blinks, and then his eyes widen when he realizes that what that probably means is that Robert would want him dead. He, like everyone else in the hall, knew of the King's rage at the Targaryen family. He tensed, waiting for the inevitable knife in the back, and his eyes close in acceptance.

"You'll not die today, Jon Snow," Robert tells him, starting to move around the table, "I'm sure all of you expect me to kill him, to celebrate the chance to murder one last Targaryen, but I'm not that big of a cunt."

He stops in front of Jon and sighs, "I loved this boy's mother, and if I could name him a Stark I would. But I can't."

He looks around the crowd, "I'm sure even here there are a bunch of stupid bastards who are just waiting for a new legitimate Targaryen to get behind. So you'll stay a Snow, boy."

Jon nods, slowly, not truly sure what the King was aiming at.

"On top of that though, I'll do you the honor of sending you as far away as I can stand to do to Lyanna's child," Robert adds, and he holds his hand out for Barristan Selmy to hand him his sword. The old knight does so with some reluctance, but the King pays him no mind and tells Jon to kneel. When the bastard of Winterfell slowly does so, he continues, "Jon Snow, I name you Lord of the New Gift. You are to produce the sustenance necessary for the survival of the Night's Watch, and you are to seek peace in the realm in any way you can. Go make peace with the fucking Wildlings, as long as it keeps you North of the Neck."

He hands the sword back to Barristan, and as Jon rises he tells the boy, "Gods above, if you ever come that far South I'll have to kill you out of principal. Am I clear?"

Jon slowly nods, "Yes, your Grace."

"Then get the fuck out of my sight," Robert growls, at the same time giving the confused Lord Snow a wink.

Jon, still trying to get his head around what was happening, merely nods again and steps away from the king, moves a few steps further back, then turns and walks slowly out of the great hall. As he leaves he hears Robert declare, "Alright, that's it, everyone else out, too! I'm fucking tired. Somebody get me more wine!"

It was a cold afternoon, as it usually was in the North, and as he breathed in the chilled air while making his way to the Godswood, Jon couldn't help but feel just a small bit happy. He'd told his father… Uncle, now, it seemed… that he didn't care to know who his mother was, and that was true. Who gave birth to him did not matter to him, but it seemed that now it mattered to others.

He supposed that the King had made a clever use of his own desire to go beyond the Wall. Not to mention to settle somewhere quietly. With the added benefit of not being allowed south of the Neck, King Robert had essentially revealed why he was being favored and pseudo-banished in one stroke.

In any case, he would be leaving Winterfell in the morning, and when he finally reached his destination, hopefully Ygritte would be there with him. He reached the reflecting pool and sat on one of the roots of the great weirwood tree, closing his eyes as he thought of his lost love. He thought of her hair, her smile, the way her face would shift with her mood. He thought of the Cave, and wondered if he would be able to join her there again.

He hoped she would want him as much as he still wanted her.

"So, Snow, looks like things are a bit different than we thought," Jon opens his eyes to see Robb, standing in front of him with a smirk, "I can tell you, that all caused quite the still."

"I imagine it did, Stark," Jon nods, and smiles.

"And it seems that you're to be one of my future bannermen, rather than a dour brother of the Night's Watch," Robb adds, smiling, "And soon you'll be off to the Wall anyway, how does that happen?"

"The Long Night is coming," Jon tells him, sighing, "No man, Wildling or no, deserves getting murdered by the dead."

"Aye, I think I've seen more than enough to prove old Nan's horror stories already," Robb waves a hand at Jon's chest, "I don't think I need the dead coming back any more than they already do."

Jon snorts, nodding.

"Is it strange?" Robb asks.

Snow's gaze turns up to him, and he frowns in thought. His eyes move from Robb to look at the Godswood and after a moment return to tell his brother… cousin now, "Yes, very. I see people I know are dead, I see places I know are burnt, memories that've haunted me for years are now happening all over again."

"What d'you mean?" Robb asks.

"I'm to head north soon, and… father… is to head south not long after," Jon tells him, deciding to call Ned his father, as he had done for his entire life. In that vein he, the Starks were his brothers and sisters as well, "I fear a war will break out while I'm away."

"Well, if that happens, I'll hold off on making any deals with Walder Frey," Robb assures him, and the chuckle he receives in returns is well worth the joke.

"I'll be expecting to see you again, Robb," Jon tells him, "Don't do anything foolish."

Robb nods, and leans against the Weirwood, deciding to enjoy the time he has left with his brother, now cousin. Occasionally he glances down at Jon, but the new Lord Snow acts much the same as he had the last few days. It was his normal stony calmness, mixed with a measure of resignation and more experience than even father had. Robb knew, that Jon was as much a Stark as he, even more so if his brother's similar attitude to their father was anything to go by. They each had an almost imperceptible air about them that made people want to follow, that slight note that the man has seen and done enough that no matter what you do in life, they will have done it and grown tired of it before you'd even thought of doing it. It wasn't something that Robb thought he'd see in anyone other than his father.

On the subject of Ned Stark, the man in question was standing in his chambers across from his wife, who was not pleased. Catelyn Stark was not having a good week; first she'd had to reassess her treatment of her husband's bastard, then she'd learnt that the boy would not be remaining and had to fight the elation that came with the news, and finally she'd learnt that the boy was not even Ned's bastard at all.

That was the worst of it, truly, for she knew that she would have treated the boy more kindly had she known. She was kind to the other bastards she knew, for her ire was reserved for the presumed betrayal that her husband had forced upon her. And now she knew that there was never a betrayal, that Ned had never been unfaithful to her.

And she was feeling all of that self loathing that had been with her when she had wished him dead as a boy, when she had seen him fall only a few days ago, and now all she could see was this new betrayal. Her husband had lied to her for as long as she had been wed to him, and she had wished an innocent child untold pain for something that had never been his fault.

Now, she wasn't even angry with Ned, merely broken. It was destroying her inside, the way she treated Jon Snow, and her husband could see it happening. She knew he could, his eyes were always so expressive, but he would not approach her. If he did, she would strike him, let all her anger loose on him, forget that she was angry with herself, and then she would be back to the start in a few short hours. She had told Ned to stay quiet so that she could work through her feelings.

Unfortunately, it didn't look like she would be able to come to grips with herself by the time Jon was gone.


	5. The Road

**Kill the Boy 5**

The sun rose slowly on the King's final day in Winterfell. Servants bustled from building to building in a mad dash to make sure everything was prepared for his departure. The majority of the Lannister Party had set out the day before with the new Hand of the King and the King's family, so all that was left was the fat monarch himself and a small contingent of men.

Next to the departing royal party stood Jon, Benjen, and ten of the guard, including Jory Cassel. The captain of the Stark guard gives the Bastard of Winterfell a respectful nod when he sees him, though his men are not so attentive. To them, the journey North is a waste at best and a danger to all of their lives at worst.

Jon knows this to be true as well, having begged his father to let him make the journey alone. Ned wouldn't hear of it, though, and told him that he would go with an escort or not at all. There were not many arguments against Ned Stark that Jon had ever won, and this was another tally in the Warden of the North's favor.

Ten minutes after the light clears and the morning fog recedes, Robert reveals himself in all his boisterous glory. He strides out of Winterfell beside Ned as the pair talk, discussing Ned's trip south to meet with the other Wardens to determine the fate of the Lannister twins.

"I'll tell you again, Ned, I need you earlier than the end of the year," Robert grinds out, "I already gave orders for the Imp to send out summons to all the Wardens when he reaches the first Keep he finds."

"Why did you not have him send them from Winterfell?" Ned asks, now asking this. He had not known that Tyrion had left with orders from the King.

"I sent word that he was my new Hand from here, he suggested we give the Citadel a bit of time to get the word out," Robert explains, "which is why he's doing this instead."

Ned nods his head in understanding, "So I'll be receiving my notice near the end of this month, then?"

Robert nods, "Aye, you will. Which is why you should just fucking come with me!"

Ned shakes his head, "I wish to spend some more time with my family, if what Jon has said is true, this may be the last I see of them. I will not waste that time."

"Of for…" Robert growls and claws his hands in front of him, "That boy and his damned… what the fuck do we call it? Future sight?"

"I tend not to address it as anything but fact," Ned tells him.

Robert snorts, "Of course you don't. Fine. You want to spend an extra month at home? Go right ahead."

Ned nods, and then when they reach Robert's horse he extends a hand. The king takes it and with a hearty laugh pulls the Lord of Winterfell in. They exchange a hug, and with a final smile to each other all of the tension between then seeps away in an exchange of brotherly love. Robert watches as Ned stalks back into his keep, calm and secure in his position; but Robert knew that Ned was right, Tywin Lannister was a man who did not suffer insults lightly, and the imprisonment of his family would deeply insult him.

That was why he had made Ned swear his people to secrecy, and done the same with his own. He'd even managed to get an agreement from the Hound, astoundingly enough. Tywin, as well as the other two Wardens of Mace Tyrell and Lysa Arryn, wouldn't know the reason for their summoning until they arrived.

Robert would not let a war break out, especially not one that resulted in the deaths of the Starks. If that seemed cavalier to others, or strangely focused on the Northern House, it was because he couldn't stand his own. There was a special kind of hatred between the Baratheon brothers; with Robert hating Stannis for being a strict cunt and Renly for being a pretty boy who couldn't fight to save his life, Stannis hating him for being a drunken whoremonger who took Storm's End from him and Renly for not appreciating his actions during the siege of Storm's End, and then Renly hated them both because they were not good men and were utter cunts to him for most of their lives and almost all of his.

"M'Lord," Robert is broken from his revelry by a page, who was holding his horse steady for him to climb on.

As the King made a show of climbing onto his horse, the rest of the Royal party began to move out of the ancient Keep. This left Robert near the middle of the train when he finally stabilized himself. With a laugh, he kicks his horse into a trot to try and make it back to the front. It takes a few minutes for him to even get near it, but then he sees Jon Snow sitting forlornly on his own steed.

"What's troubling you lad?" He rides beside the boy and asks.

Jon starts and turns to the king, blinking at him. After a moment he sighs and tells the king, "Last time I sat here, on this horse on this spot, my father was telling me that he would tell me about my mother the next time we spoke."

"And that was when you were splitting at the Kingsroad, was it?" Robert clarifies.

"Yes, your Grace," Jon nods, "I was a bitter lad, after Winterfell, but times change I suppose."

"Aye, they do," Robert nods, "How long did it take me to leave Winterfell last time?"

"More than a month," Jon tells him, "Bran fell from the Broken Tower the last time we went about it, so you stayed longer so my father could try and have a proper goodbye with him."

"Did he?" Robert asks, sure that the answer would be a no.

He was proven right when the new Lord Snow shook his head, "He was in a deep sleep, one that he didn't come out of until we'd well left Winterfell."

"And I assume I didn't have a reason to move my fat arse, either?" Robert guesses.

"No, you never did learn about the affair the last time about," Jon agrees, "If you had, I'm sure there would have been word before your death."

Robert nods, then smirks, "Well, boy, I can't do much more for you, but if we ever see each other again... I'll tell you about your mother."

Jon blinks at the king, and the monarch snorts in amusement as he turns his horse to follow his train. The boy watches the large man as he sinks down the next hill across before turning to his own men. The Stark men, Jory, and Benjen had been more respectful than he thought they'd be, giving him the time he needed to say goodbye to Winterfell properly.

It was hard to say goodbye for a second time, he'd done it once and regretted it for nearly every day after. It was only for those brief moments with Ygritte that he knew he could be happy outside the walls of his childhood Keep. Winterfell was his home, but the fire haired girl from beyond the Wall was his heart. As much as he wished to stay, he wished he still had her even more.

When Sansa had come to him in Castle Black, after his death, he'd been honest when he told her that they should never have left Winterfell, and he meant it. He still did, but when he had said that he had already burnt Ygritte's body. Now, he could bring her south, without her dying, without him dying to his brothers in the Night's Watch. He could have her, and he could have home.

And he wanted her more.

As he and his uncle began their ride North, his thoughts turned to other matters, for he could not spend every moment stuck on her. He was to be the Lord of the New Gift so he needed to show that to the people there. He needed to get their support, needed them to keep working their lands, needed them to trust him.

How the fuck was he going to manage that?

"Jory," He hesitantly starts.

The man turns towards him and raises an eyebrow, "Aye?"

"You've been by my father's side for years," Jon notes and then asks, "In that time, have you picked anything up about how he ruled?"

"Wouldn't you know better than me?" Jory asks, his eyebrow descending and his eyes instead furrowing.

"Lady Stark wouldn't allow Maester Luwin to teach me on matters of ruling," Jon tells him.

"I don't mean that, Lord Commander," Jory tells him, letting Jon know that the man was aware of his true situation, but not saying anything more to give it away to the men who did not.

Jon blinks, and snorts, "It's a different matter altogether, leading less than five hundred men versus leading a hundred thousand small-folk."

"I wouldn't say so, m'Lord," Jory shakes his head, "Just different subjects; agriculture instead of armament and so on."

Jon turns his head in thought, staring off into the trees. Jory was right, in a sense, leading men in a fort could be like leading small-folk on the field, it just mattered how you thought of the situation. He also now had a way to treat between the small-folk and the Wildlings. The small-folk were always desperate for protection, and there wasn't a doubt in Jon's mind that he would only get a fraction of the Wildlings to join him, but he could get enough to make a fighting force at least, and they would protect the New Gift rather than raise it, as they had in the past.

It all depended on how he managed to get them together, and who he managed to get to agree to join him. He wanted Mance, Tormund, and Wun Wun of course. Tormund had been a friend, as had Mance for the brief time they'd been near each other. Wun Wun and the other giants were a gentle people, and the massive man had been a friend before he died. Jon knew that he would be able to convince them, at the very least, to come south without struggle.

For all the terrible legends, he had found that giants were just like many others, and that unlike most men, they did not live for violence. They didn't eat meat, they minded themselves, and they were never the true instigators in a fight. As an added benefit, if he got the giants, chances are that he would get a lot of the freefolk to come with them. All he had to do was hope that war didn't break out in the South while he was beyond the Wall.

In the South, the three children of Tywin Lannister sat within a rocking carriage. Cersei glared balefully at her younger brother, who did nothing but gaze at her and Jaime both with sullen disapproval. The male twin was more reserved in the face of his brother's disapproval, but still held his casual arrogance despite the circumstances.

They'd been like this for most of the morning, silently glaring at each other in turn, until finally Cersei could take it no more, "What!?"

"I've heard from father," Tyrion tells her, "The contents of the letter to him were sparse, but I'm sure he's heard the whole story from one of the men, possibly even the Hound. I saw him talking with the Maester yesterday after I left the man alone."

"Good, he will call the banners for us," the former Queen nods.

Tyrion tilts his head to the side, "Call the banners?"

"Yes, he will march into the Riverlands and take us back before we reach King's Landing," She tells him, smugly.

Tyrion nods, "That is certainly likely, but not what he will be doing, for now."

"What will he do?" Jaime asks, dreading the unknown news.

"He will be meeting us in King's Landing, and he will get the whole story there," Tyrion tells them, "From both of you, and me as well. It seems my new position has impressed him enough that he'll actually take my word seriously."

"And what will you tell him?" Cersei snarls, "Will you condemn us to death with the truth?"

Tyrion sucks his lips and his mouth twitches as he takes more and more of his sister's abuse, "I will tell him the whole truth, as will the both of you. The realm as a whole will not know the extent of your affair, sweet sister, but your now ex-husband feels that in order to avert war with Father he needs him to know everything."

"And then what will happen to us?" Jaime asks, knowing that more than likely his father would still work to free them. For all of his faults, Tywin cared too deeply for the Lannister family to let them fall into despair because of his or Cersei's actions.

"You and Cersei will be tried by the Wardens," Tyrion tells him, repeating what the King had said, "That includes father, Ned Stark, Mace Tyrell, and Lysa Arryn will sit in for her son."

"Great, we're to be tried by Father, the noble Stark, an idiot, and a madwoman," Jaime sighs, "We're going to die."

"I very much doubt that," Tyrion notes, "Father still wants you to be his heir, and as much of a disgrace he'll see our dear sister as, she's still useful to marry off to someone."

"What of my children?" she demands.

"If it comes to it, I will watch over Tommen and Myrcella," Tyrion tells her, "They're sweet children and don't deserve to be caught in your mistakes."

"What of Joffrey?" She demands

"He is a monster."

Cersei tries to lunge at him but her arms are caught by the chains holding her in place and she simply tells him, "Never speak of my son that way!"

"I will speak of him however I see fit," Tyrion tells her, "Your son tried to murder me yesterday and it was only thanks to the Hound that I live."

"What?" Jaime pulls his sister back, blinking down at Tyrion, "What happened?"

"Your children were not prisoners, so they were free to wander the camp, with escort," Tyrion tells him, "Joffrey's was the Hound, naturally, and when he saw me, he attempted to pull his knife and stab me through the eye with it."

"And the Hound stopped him?" Jaime asks.

"He did," Tyrion nods, "Which is why your son is to be tried for attempting to murder the Hand of the King. Hence, why I don't care for him any more than I did before learning he was an actual bastard to go along with his attitude."


	6. Things in motion

**Kill the Boy 6**

There are many circumstances in which the term unhappy can be applied. The one most prevalent at the moment is the one that Jeor Mormont feels. Before him stands a lad of no more than fifteen years, and yet he gazes at the Lord Commander like he'd walked twenty miles in his shoes, and was still telling him what he was telling him.

The boy, Lord Jon Snow, according to the King, was now the master of the New Gift, a slice of land that the Night's Watch had owned for hundreds of years, but that they'd never been able to put to good use. And now this boy wanted to treat with the Wildlings of all people, and get them to come south with him and populate his lands.

The New Gift was not a populous place, nearly empty at the best of times. It was for this reason that apparently the King had seen fit to take the land back and give it to the bastard of Winterfell. If he hadn't received a raven revealing the boy's parents, he would not have understood this decision. As it was, him being here was already causing quite the stir, what with a good portion of the men who weren't former criminals being Targaryen men sent to take the black when they chose not to bend the knee to King Robert.

"Lord Commander, I don't need your blessing, or your approval, I just need to know that when I return you will open the gate for me," Jon tells him, after the silence had grown too long.

"I know that, boy," Jeor growls, "I'm just not sure what the fuck I'm to tell the men."

"Tell them that they will be my problem," Jon informs him, "Not theirs."

Jeor snorts, "You underestimate how much some of my men hate Wildlings, lad."

"No, Lord Commander, I understand perfectly well," Jon tells him, then sighs, "I also wish to bring up another subject."

"And what is that?" Jeor asks.

"You've got a boy named Samwell Tarly in your recruits," Jon tells him, thinking of his only friend who he could actually free from his bonds as a man of the Watch, "He hasn't taken his vows and is unsuited for life on the Wall. As Lord of the New Gift, I am in need of a Maester, and he would be my best choice."

"Why would a fat lad banished to the Wall by Randyl Tarly of all people, be your best choice as Maester?" Jeor asks.

"Because I don't think he would try to sway me into war," Jon tells him, "I know what strife my blood can bring, and I'd rather a novice who hates conflict, than an old man who wants me to win a war so he can be Grand Maester."

"And how do you know your lad won't want that?"

"Because you don't try to join the Watch if you aspire for great things," Jon tells him, and there is a certainty in his eyes that frightens Jeor. He was also speaking the truth, none joined who had a better option. None who hadn't had their heads filled with foolish notions at least. And Alliser was good at disabusing them of this notion.

"Speak with the boy yourself," Jeor tells him, "Like you said, he's yet to make his vows and he came as a volunteer."

Jon nods and stands, while the Lord Commander does the same. He watches as the boy leaves his office and sighs, picking up the letter he'd received from the Hand of the King. It was a long one, and it expressed quite clearly that Jon Snow was permitted to treat with the Wildlings by the King's own words. He looks up as the door swings closed, and wonders what the hell is going on in the minds of the men of the south, especially the King

Going through the mind of the King was a laundry list of things that he needed to do so that he could actually keep war from erupting in his kingdoms. Top of his list as potential instigators was naturally Tywin Lannister, who had destroyed houses in the past, and even sacked the capital. Before everything he'd learnt of his wife's betrayals, Robert had approved of those actions. Now he felt he was on the same page with many of the lords of Westeros, looking at the Warden of the West as though he were a sleeping lion, just waiting for an excuse to maul you to death.

Next to Tywin was Lysa Arryn, who would be acting in her son's stead. Robert didn't know the woman too well, but he did know that she was a mad fucking cunt who still suckled her son on her teat. At any of the occasions he'd met her, the mad woman had tried to bash his head in, accused Cersei of trying to kill her son, and any number of strange things. She may have been right about Cersei, but that didn't stop her rantings from grating on the nerves or from her being one of the most likely to push for execution. If that got through, then there was no doubt that the Lannisters would declare war, and then because she was a Tully by birth, Tywin would destroy the Riverlands to try to break her spirit.

The only neutral Wardens would be Mace Tyrell and Ned. Ned was honorable to a stupid degree, but he was also one of the best rulers in the Seven Kingdoms. The people of the North literally had nothing bad to say about him, ever. As for Mace, well, the man was an idiot and would be easy to convince to side with whatever Ned chose. This would be especially effective if he could get the oaf to betroth his daughter to the eldest Stark boy.

And then, aside from the upcoming conflicts between the Seven Kingdoms, there was the matter of his heir. With the legitimacy of Cersei's children now known, Robert would need to remarry and have at least one legitimate heir. Though Tyrion's suggestion of Legitimizing a bastard did have some merit. Edric would be a good age, possibly. The bastard he'd sired with the Florent girl back on Stannis's wedding night.

Actually, there was some fun in that idea, especially because it would fuck with Stannis so exceptionally. His brother had banished the lad to Storm's end and from everything that Varys told him, the boy was a great shining copy of his own self. He could be perfect for the job. Though on the other hand, leaving himself without an heir could tear the Kingdoms apart. There was a lot of good in that idea, finally destroying the symbol of Targaryen rule once and for all.

But that wouldn't work, he knew, because people were used to the idea of the Seven Kingdoms being one. He may hate everything that they stood for, but everyone else did not. There was something to aspire to in the game of thrones, and speaking of, he would have to deal with Littlefinger when he finally arrived in the capital.

The bastard had said that Baelish aspired for the throne, so the little whoremonger probably had some plans in effect. He'd have to get Varys on the job of finding out every dirty little secret the man had.

Though, on the subject of Varys, that fat eunuch had been master of whispers for Aerys before him, and there was a chance that he'd switch to being loyal to Jon if the occasion came. He'd have to figure out something to do if it came to that eventuality.

Robert Baratheon continued to think about how to keep his kingdom from degenerating into war, and as he thought and thought he never realized that he'd forgotten something that he wanted to speak with Ned about, or Tyrion as his new Hand. He'd forgotten about the Targaryens across the narrow sea.

Of those same Targaryens, ravens had reached Illyrio Mopatis about the existence of Jon Snow and his heritage, and he'd sent a rider to catch up with the Dothraki horde to tell the Beggar King about the information. Or more specifically, to tell Jorah Mormont so that he would tell the boy.

When the Westerosi knight received the message, he took the letter from the messenger, who beat a hasty retreat from the Kha. After he'd read the contents for himself, he kicked his horse to take him to the Targaryens. Both Viserys and Daenerys were riding next to each other, and turned as the knight approached.

"Ser Jorah," Daenerys is the one that actually bothers to speak with him, greeting him with a smile.

"Your grace, Khaleesi," He nods in respect, "I've received interesting news from Westeros."

"And what is it you've learnt?" Viserys asks, raising an eyebrow.

"You are no longer the last of the Targaryens, your grace," He tells the prince, "It has been revealed that Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, was in fact your brother's son with Lyanna Stark."

"The cunt my brother stole that started the usurper's rebellion?" Viserys demands to know.

"The same, your grace," Jorah nods, though he winces as well, having been fond of Lyanna like many of the lads.

"Is he still alive?" Daenerys asks.

"He is," Jorah nods, "though banished as far to the north as possible without joining the Night's Watch."

"And what does the usurper hope to accomplish with this task?" Viserys wants to know.

"According to the Magister, he did not wish to kill the boy out of affection for the Stark family, and Lyanna in particular," the Knight tells him

"Thank you, Sir Jorah," Daenerys says, and he takes it as the dismissal it is and lets his horse fall back so that he doesn't intrude on the conversation between siblings. The khaleesi is the first to speak, "We are not alone, brother!"

"Indeed not, sister," he tells her, "And it seems we may have a foothold for when we bring our army to Westeros!"

Daenerys nods, though Jorah sees that it is not enthusiastically course, brother."

Viserys presses on, ignoring her tone, "And when we enter his lands, he will hail me as the coming king, and we will sweep down through Westeros taking every kingdom under our rule once again!"

"But he is blood to the Starks," Daenerys notes, "He may not wish for us to attack them."

"Bah!" Viserys waves his hand, "What are a bunch of dogs compared to the might of the dragon!?"

The dogs in question were sitting down for their last meal together as a family before Ned's departure for King's Landing. They were dining in relative solitude, their family seated at the high table while everyone in the hall gave them a respectful amount of space.

"I still don't see why you must leave so soon," Catelyn wonders, looking to her husband.

The lord Stark sighs, "The king has called all of the Wardens, and I am among their number. With luck, it will not take so long that I will be gone more than a few months. I've already asked Lord Manderly to see to getting me a fast ship so that I might make the journey all the faster."

"You know what Jon said, father," Robb reminds him, "You did not return from the capital when you went last time."

"I have told your mother, the king, and now I tell all of you, we cannot live our lives on something that might have been," Ned tells him, "We cannot punish men for crimes not commited, and we cannot trust portents brought by information that was heard second hand and may never truly come to pass."

"And what about when everything goes tits up?" Arya asks, recalling a phrase she'd heard from the big man in the dog helm.

"Arya, language," her mother scolds her, but then she too looks to her husband for some indication as to what he thinks.

"If the situation becomes violent, I will work to escape the city, rather than do anything heroic," Ned promises them, "You are all too important for me to lose, and if my dying were to be the start of… what Jon told us would happen… I would stain any honor I have to see you safe."

"Oh, about Jon," Bran sits up, "Any word?"

Ned nods, "The Lord Commander has sent a raven telling me that he has set off north of the wall with his men, Benjen, and a recruit from the Watch."

"What help will a recruit be?" Robb asks, furrowing his brow.

"Maybe he was a friend from before he came back," Arya offers.

Catelyn remains silent as Jon is discussed. She was still plagued by guilt over how he'd treated the boy, and time away from him was only gnawing at her heart more than if he'd stayed. The distance and the chance of his death before she could apologize made her self-torment all the worse.

Ned saw the hunch of his wife's shoulders and lays a hand on hers, squeezing gently in a reassuring manner. Silence falls over the table as the family tries to enjoy their final meal together, one that there was a distinct possibility of being the last they would ever have.

The subdued feeling was not exclusive to the Stark's of Winterfell, for south and West, Tywin Lannister brooded in his solar. The Lord of the Rock had been thinking for weeks on what to do about his wayward children. Cersei having an affair, Jaime covering it up, and Tyrion hand of the King. He didn't know what to make of the last one.

His youngest son had always been a drunken whoremonger in his eyes, and that was probably why Robert had so easily given him the position, but he was also proving to be an effective ruler while the King was not in the capital. Already Tywin was receiving reports that changes to the gold cloaks were taking place to root out the corruption, raids were taking place on negligent tax collectors, flea bottom was being cleared of beggars, a dozen small decisions that told Tywin that his most hated son was capable of his task.

And most telling of all, when Tywin had sent word with carefully coded instructions to the dwarf, he had received a thank you from the dwarf along with a subtle message that he would rule without Lannister interference. It was a blow, for Tywin expected every member of his family to act _for_ the family, but Tyrion had apparently decided to act for the kingdom.

It was far more noble or respectable than anything he'd expected from his least favorite child. But then again, he had hardly expected such stupidity from his other two. Cersei, perpetuating an affair for as long as she'd been married to the King? By all reports her bastard children didn't even resemble the king and instead took after her almost exclusively; which meant that the father more than likely didn't even closely resemble the king. How stupid could she be? She had none of his skills with politics, or Joanna's affinity with people, yet she acted like she had both in spades!

And then there was Jaime, who he could nearly forgive for his part in this mess. He should have sent word from the onset of his knowledge, tried to dissuade her from her path, but now there was no helping him. He knew that if he was lucky, he would be able to get Jaime out of this, but Cersei was in such levels of shit that she could lose her head.

And that couldn't be allowed.


	7. White Haze

**Kill the Boy 7**

It was blindingly white, far beyond the Wall. The party that Jon had taken had unfortunately run afoul of a snowstorm and needed to find shelter in the mountains. Jon recognized them, before the white had taken hold, as the peaks he had first met Ygritte on. It had taken weeks to reach this point, his men growing more weary and resigned to finding nothing with each passing day.

It had come to the point that he was willing to admit defeat for this first foray into the lands beyond the wall. He had told the men that they would head back after the storm had passed, and now he sat a watch as the storm slowly blanketed the landscape.

He wondered if she was out there, watching him with a party of Wildlings, waiting to see what the kneelers would do. He wondered if she had any inkling as to who he was. He knew she didn't, but there was a dull hope that not even the most logical thought could destroy. The Ygritte he had lost was gone to him, but now she had never met him and he could try to meet her as a friend, rather than enemy.

"You seem woeful," The familiar voice of Samwell Tarly notes from behind him.

Jon turns his head to smile at his approaching friend with as much of a grin as he could muster, "I'm scared, Sam."

"Of how your lady love will think of you?" Sam asks, smirking.

Jon nods, trying, but failing to regret telling his dearest friend about his voyage into the past after death. Samwell had asked a few pointed questions, then nodded, telling Jon that anyone who knew as much about him as the Lord Snow did must have been a great and true friend, and from the future. Sam did not enjoy talking about himself, or his father.

"I am," Jon answers Sam's question, "We're from different people, customs, I don't know if I'll manage to find her again."

"Keep the faith, Jon," Samwell joins him on his boulder, "You say this girl, Ygritte… right? is your opposite?"

"Aye, she's all fire and passion," Jon nods, "She could turn any head, and turn them till they snapped if she had to."

"She does sound terrifying," the large Tarly boy nods, "How'd you, you know, love her?"

Jon blinks, staring out into the white haze, and smiles at the image of Ygritte his mind conjures for him, "A hundred small things, Sam. That's how you know, when it isn't one thing that takes your heart, but everything."

"Well isn't this a beautiful talk between two stong ol' boys," A new voice laughs from above them.

Both look up to see a man covered in furs, pointing his notched and drawn boy at them, standing on an outcropping of rocks that hung over their camp site. Samwell jumps in fright, leaping from the rock with a startled yelp, but the man keeps his arrow aimed at Jon, recognizing the threat of the leaner and fitter looking boy over the fat one.

Jon stares up at the bow weilding Wildling and asks, "Are you party to Mance Rayder?"

"How do you know Mance?" The man demands.

"My name is Jon Snow, I've been named Lord of the New Gift," Jon tells the man, "It is land below the Wall, I wish to speak with Mance about allowing your people through to settle it."

The man lowers his bow a faction and asks, "Are you soft in the head, boy? The Crows would never let us pass."

Jon shakes his head, "I've already spoken with the Crows, they may not like it, but it is both my will and the will of the King, they cannot say no."

"Oh, King, aye, and will we be expected to kneel for the man with the golden hat?"

"No," Jon tells him, "He does not want me, or anyone I chose to take into my lands, to journey close enough to him to even shout."

"And why's that?"

"Years ago, he fought a rebellion against the last kings, he killed my father, and loved my mother," Jon tells the man, "He allows me to live out of love for her and her family, but does not wish me near out of hatred for his."

"So he gave you land as close to the Wall as he could to keep you busy and away," the man snorts, "Did he tell you to get us because he didn't want none of his people coming to you?"

Jon nods.

"Who else is with you, aside from the fat one?"

"Ten Stark men, and my Uncle, the First Ranger," Jon tells him.

"You've got a Crow with you?" The bow comes back up.

"I do, it isn't wise to travel the unknown without a guide, and Uncle Benjen is willing to let go of past hatreds to see me safe," Jon tells the man.

"Benjen… Stark?" The man asks, lowering his bow again, "Long hair, tight build?"

"You're describing me well, stranger," Benjen notes, stepping out from beneath the cover of the outcropping, "Who do we have the pleasure of addressing?"

"Orell," The man introduces himself, then asks, "So, First Ranger, this boy has your blood?"

"He does," Benjen nods.

"Then he's got the blood of the first men," Orell nods, "That'll be good enough for a talk, at least."

"Thank you," Jon nods.

"Don't thank me, boy, thank the girl," Orell jerks his head forward and Jon turns around.

Ygritte.

Jon's mind slows to a stop as he watches her pull down her snow covered hood and stand from her place buried in the snow. She'd been ten feet from him, the whole time, and he hadn't realized. She smirks at him as he blinks, noting, "You were sayin such pretty things about me, I couldn't stand to see you stop."

Jon opens his mouth to reply, but words won't come. It opens and closes a few more times before he manages to whisper out, "Ygritte."

"Aye," She nods, "You know me, but I don't know you. So what's your name, pretty boy?"

"Jon Snow."

"Ah, explains why nobody knew whose loins you crawled out of, then," She nods, stepping up to him and without warning grabbing his crotch.

Benjen and Sam exchange glances as Jon freezes, having forgotten exactly how forward the girl was when they'd first met. Now he was getting a crash course, and he wasn't sure how much he appreciated the reminder.

"Oh, this'll do nicely," the fire haired girl nods to herself, "you just keep speakin them buttery words to me, and I may just have a use for you yet."

She lets go and Jon unfreezes, nodding slowly. They stare into each other's eyes for a moment before Orell clears his throat, "You can claim the boy later, girl, right now we need to get moving before the snows completely block the pass."

She smirks and nods, "You heard the man, Jon Snow, get your boys and come along."

Jon slowly nods, and turns away from her carefully, afraid that if he looks away she may fade back into the white and this whole encounter will have proved itself a dream. Thankfully, he and his two already awake companions roused the others without breaking this grand illusion. The bitter cold of the lands beyond the wall help cement in his mind the knowledge that he isn't, in fact, in a dream.

Orell led the thirteen men from the Wall and further south across the snow covered hills for an hour before he comes to a stop, "Alright, hold here, I need to get my other men."

The Stark men are noticeably nervous at this, wondering if the wildling man and woman had merely led them from their safe alcove to abandon them in the white. Jon and Benjen were more confident that the man would return, after all, Ygritte was staying with them.

As the large man fades into the obscuring frost, Ygritte turns to Jon and asks, "So, pretty boy, how do you know me?"

Jon, thankful that his blush is hidden under three layers of cloth, tells her, "I doubt you'd believe me."

"Oh, you'd be surprised what I'll believe," She counters.

"You know giants and Wargs and Wights, aye, but I don't think you'd believe my story," Jon tells her again, sure that she'd only think him mad if he told her the story.

She snorts, and tells him something he'd missed for so long, "You know nothing, Jon Snow."

He closes his eyes in pain, taking a breath to fight back the tears.

"Oh my, are you about to start crying?" She asks, "It can't be that bad, can it?"

"It can, and is," He tells her, "Involving more than a fair share of betrayals, deaths, and dark deeds. I'd rather leave it in the past."

"Are you speaking of magic?" She demands.

"Aye, though performed on me in some way, not by me," Jon tells her.

"Who did it then?"

"A woman, a follower of a god from the east, who is out of my reach," Jon tells her, thinking of the Red Witch Melisandre.

"Then I'll be traveling south with you," the fire haired girl tells him, "If magic knows about me, I'll be knowing about magic, and i'll but an arrow through whoever pointed it to me."

"She further off than my sword or your arrows can reach," Jon tells her, "All I'll tell you is that I saw things, and had things done to me, that would have left anyone dead had she not also brought me back from that." 

"Are you telling me that you've been dead?" She demands, tensing.

"I have, but not like the dead you've faced," He tells her.

"And how do you know about the Wights anyway?" She asks.

He looks at her, "The same way I knew about you, black magics."

Sam is the one to interject this time, "You haven't told me this bit, what did she do that was so bad?"

Ygritte shoots him a look, clearly having meant their conversation to have been private, but unwilling to counter his question. She was curious about the answer as well.

"She murdered a child for her god," Jon swallows, remembering the sweet Princess Shireen, "Burnt her alive for her god before she brought me back. Now… I need to be better for that child. She didn't deserve her fate."

"So you making peace with us is just you trying to make up for some mad witch's schemes?" Ygritte demands.

"It is one of the reasons," Jon nods, "But I am doing this because you, nor anyone else, deserves to be added to the armies of the undead."

"Mighty noble of you, Kneeler," Orell's voice comes through the drifts of snow before the man himself. Behind him are three other wildlings of indeterminate gender thanks to the mass of furs protecting them from the cold, "Didn't know anyone but us free folk knew about the wights."

"He's told me enough," Ygritte tells him, "I won't be hearing it a second time."

"Fair 'nough," Orell nods, "He can tell Mance, and Mance'll tell them that he convinces to come with him."

"You think Mance will agree to come?" Benjen asks.

"Oh, aye," Orell nods, "He may hate the Crows, but he hates fighting even more. He's built us up so we could get past the Wall. If we don't have to fight to get past, all the better will be his thoughts."

"Course, not everyone'll be thinking that," Ygritte notes, "Lord of Bones and the Thenns, most like'll try and kill you boys before you can say moren twenty words."

"Which is why we're going to be moving fast and quiet," Orell grunts, then holds out an arm, which an eagle lands in.

Jon blinks at the creature, remembering an encounter with a similar bird in the future that wouldn't be. He blinks, and turns to Orell, and sure enough, the man had some resemblance to the Warg he had worked with alongside Tormund and Ygritte, before he'd shoved a sword through his chest, but at the same time he wasn't the same. Similar names, it seemed, and a similar affinity for eagles. Did the other Orell take the eagle after he and Qhorin halfhand killed Ygritte's party?

It didn't matter, Jon knew, but he was curious. He put it from his mind though, because it didn't matter in the long run regardless. Things were different, in this new life that he'd been given after death.

"What are you thinking, Jon Snow?" Ygritte asks.

He smiles at her, thoughts of Wargs gone in an instant, "Fate."

"Oh, and what does fate say?" She asks

"I don't know," He shrugs.

She snorts, and looks like she's about to say it, when she smirks and tells him, "Neither do I."


	8. Retelling

**Kill the Boy 8**

The tent city came into view on the dawn of their third day of traveling with the wildling band. It appeared suddenly, as though it had only popped into existence between blinks. Benjen, ever a member of the Night's Watch, gulps at the sight of so many free folk brought together under a single banner. If they marched on the Wall, there was little doubt in his mind that they would win without southern intervention. He would have to thank Jon for bringing him here if they all managed to leave with their lives.

"Crow," He turns to look at their burly guide. Orell eyes him with poorly hidden suspicion and tells him, "Mykar and Valis will be staying with you and the Stark guards here. Snow, the fat one, and the Captain of his guard can come with me and Ygritte into the camp."

Benjen nearly objects, but decides that the better option would be acceptance when Jon shakes his head at him. The guards are equally as flustered, though a barked order from Jory gets them to quiet down and accept their orders. He watches as Jon, Samwell, and Jory are led into the camp, and then looks about for a decent sized rock. The free folk watch him suspiciously as he turns around after a second and moves over to a decent sides boulder and sits down.

He raises an eyebrow at their wary gazes, "What, they're going to be a while, we might as well make ourselves comfortable."

There was truth in his words, because it took five minutes alone to get to the center of the camp, where Tormund Giantsbane and a few men were sitting in the tent and eating their noon meal. The red haired man snorts without even turning, "I smell a crow."

"We left that one at the edge of camp," Orell tells him, "What we've got here is Lord Jon Snow."

"Oh, a kneeler lord? He a prisoner?" Tormund turns, now curious.

"I'd like to say my luck is better than that, but then i'd be lying," Jon tells him, giving a small smirk.

"Jon?" Sam asks, confused.

"We've been prisoners since we they found us, Sam," Jon tells him, then holds a hand out to stop Jory from trying to draw his blade, "We're in the middle of a hundred thousand free folk, if we draw, then we die."

"Smart lad," A ragged voice notes from a small extension of the tent, and an older man with graying hair stands and moves into view.

"Are you Mance Rayder?" Jon asks, though he knows that it is the man. He recalls the first time he'd come into this tent, alone and unaware of the customs of the free folk. He'd made a fool and an ass of himself, thinking of the situation as he would a meeting with a lord beneath the Wall.

"I am," Mance nods, "I've heard from a few crows we've captured that they're starting to call me the next King Beyond the Wall, this true?"

"It is," Jon nods, "Which is why I've come in search of you."

"And who are you, aside from Lord Jon Snow?" the man asks.

"I have been given the New Gift, the lands that your people have long raided whenever you manage to get past the wall," Jon tells him, then nods his head, "The king, the one from King's Landing, has told me to populate it. I thought that if I were to let the free folk live there, they'd be less inclined to raid it."

The tent is silent, the free folk never having expected it to be that easy to cross the Wall. They had especially not expected some southern lord who looked wetter than a child to be the one to offer it to them safe passage. Usually it was the young who were the most gung ho about killing wildlings.

"You want to offer us land?" Mance asks, shaking his head in confusion.

"I do," Jon nods, "Though you'd be expected to follow the laws of the lands beyond the Wall."

"We don't kneel, boy," Tormund angrily grunts.

"That i-isn't what Jon means," Samwell tells the large man, only barely stumbling through his words, "He means the laws about r-respecting other people's property and the like."

"Laws of common decency," Mance tells Tormund, "Seems the boy wants us to act like we're all part of one clan."

Jon nods, "I won't ask you to kneel, and I never will."

"So you expect us to believe that a high and mighty kneeler lord has come all this way to offer us peace?" Tormund steps up to Jon's face, "i've met lords before, they're cunts."

"I wasn't a lord," Jon tells him, "For most my life I've just been a bastard…"

"Ah," Mance interrupts him, "I thought I'd heard your name before. Ned Stark's bastard son."

"Not anymore," Jon shakes his head, "I'm the bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen and Ned Stark's sister, Lyanna."

"Which is why the king named you a lord, eh?" Mance asks, "Tie you to a patch of land a thousand miles from anyone who would want you to play in politics. And yet here you are."

"Here I am," Jon agrees.

"There's a story to hear in this," Mance notes, "A long one that I suspect you've told the fat one."

"His name is Samwell," Jon corrects him, "Just as you get respect, Mance Rayder, I'd appreciate some returned."

Tormund snorts, "You've got balls, talking like that here."

Jon turns slightly to give Tormund a look that said a great many things about the size of his manhood before turning back to Mance and saying, "I wouldn't have come if I didn't know that you made your army to get across the wall."

"Aye, isn't that why every King Beyond the Wall makes an army?" Is asked in return.

Jon nods, "But not all of them have seen the things you've seen. Or had more reason to cross than raiding."

"How do you know what I've seen?" Mance demands, and everyone in the tent is staring at Jon Snow with curiosity. With the exception of Samwell, none present knew of his trip into the past. He hadn't even managed to tell Ygritte, who stood a few feet behind him with a look of surprised glee at finally getting to know how it was possible that he'd known about her before they'd met.

"I know because you told me," Jon tells him, "You've got giants and wights and you've even seen the White Walkers, so you know that there is magic that can't be explained."

"And you were touched by it?" Mance guesses while most of the Wildlings, and even Jory, take a large step away from the Lord Snow.

"I was murdered by it," Jon corrects, "I was murdered and brought back by a witch from the south, and then I was killed again and sent back to the start."

"The start of what?" Mance asks.

"The end," Jon tells him.

Mance frowns, "And you expect me to believe you? You claim that magic is involved, you could be the sorcerer for all I know, come to trick me and take my people to straight into the grasp of death."

Jon frowns, then pulls a dagger.

The tent is in motion before anything else can be done. Blades turn on the three kneelers and Mance jumps back warily. Jon doesn't move, nor does Samwell, while Jory tries to break from the grip of Tormund.

"You best have a good reason for drawing that, Jon Snow," Ygritte tells the boy, a knife pressed into his spine, "A real good reason."

Jon nods, and turns the knife in his hand on himself. Eye watch wearily as he cuts open his frontal shirt, the one that needed to be tied from behind. After it is done, and exposes his undershirt, he drops the knife to the floor. Eyes track the knife as it bounces on the ground, then zip back up to Jon as he pulls open the undershirt and reveals a myriad of scars across his chest.

Mance narrows his eyes, looking at the scars and noting that they hold the appearance of stab wounds. He also notes that at least one of the stabbed would have gone through the lad's heart. He looks up at Jon Snow and raises an eyebrow, "And what are those supposed to tell me?"

"I was a brother of the Night's Watch," Jon tells him, then tells the tent about his time among the wildlings, "Your people captured me, and I slew Qhorin Halfhand to gain your trust. I lived with your, raided with you, and even loved one of your number."

He gives a sideways look to Ygritte as he says the last of his list, and sees that she looks moderately impressed. He smiles slightly at her, then turns back to Mance and continues, "After near a year, I returned to the Watch. I wasn't the same boy I'd been, and I was convinced that we should let the free folk through, but the black brothers didn't agree."

"So we attacked the Wall," Mance guesses, "And I take it we won? Otherwise you wouldn't be trying to make peace before it happens."

"No," Jon shakes his head, "You lost the first night, and I rode into your camp to either treat with or kill you, but then an arm led by Stannis Baratheon attacked and slew most of your number."

Mance frowns, "Sounds like a good thing for a Crow."

"It would have been," Jon agrees, "Had I not been among you, and known why you wanted to cross the Wall."

"You saw them, then?" Mance asks.

"I did, and Samwell slew one, even."

Mance turns his gaze to the fat boy and raises an eyebrow before turning back to Jon, "How?"

"Dragonglass," Jon tells him, "That and Valyrian Steel are all that I know to be able to slay them."

"That why you've got the Stark family sword strapped 'cross your back?" Mance asks

Jon nods then continues his story, "I learnt that after the battle. I was named Lord Commander, as Jeor Mormont was slain in a mutiny, after Stannis's army destroyed yours. I chose to seek out those who survived and offer them passage through the wall."

Jon's frown deepens into nearly a snarl, "And for that I was murdered by my brothers. I was brought back, and again I had to save the free folk because the lords of the south did not appreciate my choice."

"And now you have the power to make that choice again," Mance notes, "And you're taking it."

"I am," Jon nods, "I watched as thousands were butchered by the White Walkers and their wights in Hardhome. I watched as they were added to the armies of the dead with a gesture. I will not let that happen again."

"You think you can stop them?" Mance snorts, "You can't stop them, nobody can, you can only run."

"You can run to the end of the earth," Jon agrees, dropping his left and hand extending his right, "But they'll already be there waiting when you arrive. I'd rather we stand, and beat them back to wherever they came from. Together."

Mance looks down at the boy's extended hand, and then back into his eyes. He sees, now that he looks, experience. There are more experiences in those eyes than most men could ever lay claim to. This boy had been as high as a king and as low as a beggar, as strong as an ox and as weak as a chicken. He had fought the White Walkers, and he'd lost. He knew the consequences of his actions and embraced them.

He takes the hand, but warns the boy, "You may have got me on your side, but I doubt everyone is going to be convinced by some fancy scars."

"You looked at the scars?" Tormund asks, "I looked at his face."

Mance steps back and raises an eyebrow at the man, "And exactly what d'you mean there?"

"Exactly what it sounds like," Tormund tells him, "You look a man in the eyes, you know what keeps him ticking when the meat's gone."

"And what did you see in my eyes?" Jon asks, turning.

"I saw that you've got eyes like our illustrious leader here," is the reply, and Mance gets slapped on the shoulder as it's said, "You've seen things I'll not even try to imagine, but I believed him, and so I'll believe you."

He extends a hand to Jon, which the boy takes. They shake firmly, but then Jon gives a grunt as Tormund pulls him in, "Just know, if you turn out to be lying to me, I'm gonna cut your manhood off and feed it to Mag the Mighty."

Jon raises an eyebrow, "Mag doesn't eat meat."

Tormund laughs, lets go of Jon's hand, and slaps him on both shoulders, "And there it is!"

Samwell and Jory exchange glances before turning to Ygritte and Orell. Neither gives an explanation, both busy staring at Jon in perplexed awe. The two southerners turn to the next wildling over, and the man sees their looks and sighs, "A test. Giants don't eat meat."

"And Jon knew it," Ygritte notes, taking a breath, "He's telling the truth."

"Because he knew giants don't eat meat?" Jory asks.

"None but the folk who actually get to know the giants know that," Tormund tells them, letting go of Jon, "Far as I know, none of you southern pussies ever got to knowing a giant that well."

"Oh, here we go," Ygritte rolls her eyes, "Nobody believes a Giant would sleep with you, you great lump."

The tension in the room starts to fade, leaving an air of honest mistrust that was just standard between kneelers and free folk. In the silence, Ygritte slid up beside Jon, "So, you love me, do you?"

Jon blinks, gulps, and there is a snort from Mance, "Go get your own tent, boy. I don't need romancing in my home."

There is another second of silence before the men watch as Jon Snow is dragged from the tent by a very curious redhead, eager to learn what was so special about him that she'd take him as hers.


	9. The New Hand

**Kill the Boy 9**

Far, far south of the Wall, King's Landing was a beehive of activity. Within the first month of his arrival at the Capital, Tyrion Lannister had managed to change quite a few things. First and most important had been when he gutted the Goldcloaks, the city watch. Nearly the entirety of their force had been found to be terrible corrupt - either truthful or not it didn't matter - and were either executed or sent back the way he'd come.

With the destruction of the Goldcloaks had come the rather horrifying choice of naming Sandor Clegane as their new captain. Nobody had liked the choice, but when lawbreakers stared into the horribly scarred face they did tend to be more honest in the hopes that they would not have to stare any longer. In two weeks the Goldcloaks had their numbers refilled with a combination of Lannister and Baratheon forces, as well as some volunteers from within the city. There weren't many volunteers, though, after the first ten were executed for being spies. Clegane hadn't had luck finding out who they were spying for, but it was enough that they'd tried.

As Tyrion had intended, the rearrangements in the Goldcloaks, as well as his efforts to clear out Flee Bottom and collect seventeen years worth of back taxes from negligent tax collectors, had distracted most of the city from the drama that was his family. Cersei and Jamie had been safely locked in their rooms, as were the children. Tyrion made a point of visiting the two who weren't locked in a cell to make sure they were doing well.

Myrcella was quick to understand the danger that she and her younger brother were now in, and played a far better game than Cersei had ever done. The young former princess was meek when necessary, sharp when she could be, and strong throughout. If he had any chance of marrying her back into the Baratheon line, Tyrion knew he'd take it in a heartbeat. If it weren't for the fact that her parents were who they were, she might have even managed it, but the chances of Robert even thinking of it were next to none.

Tommen was just scared and confused, which meant that every time Tyrion came to visit he had to explain why the boy couldn't be with his mother. There were many things Tyrion knew, among them was the fate that would befall the sweet boy if he ever spent another day with his mother. Cersei had screamed as much to him from across the room, declaring that she would never allow any child of hers to be taken away. This could have been seen as a simple declaration from an angry mother, and for the most part it was, but the Imp knew his sister.

He knew how destructive she could be, even when she didn't mean it. When she did mean it, and the unhinged look in her eyes told him that she very clearly did mean it, she could destroy a person in the right circumstances. The circumstance that Tyrion was worried about happened to include a terrifying swan dive over the balcony, any children at hand in hand.

The only reason she hadn't was because the children were still very much not allowed to see her, nor was Jamie. Tyrion had made the very important decision of keeping them in different rooms as soon as he realized how bad it could get if they could talk to each other. On his own, Jamie was a good man, and he got better the longer he was away from Cersei. Hell, he'd killed the Mad King, knowing how bad it would look to the rest of the Kingdoms. Cersei was like the legendary poison apple, take a bite and slowly perish.

The dwarf even liked to think, privately enough that none would ever suspect that he had this thought, that his mother had only died giving birth to him because it gave a good excuse to get away from Cersei. It was horrible, but it allowed him to push his self loathing aside and concentrate it instead on one of his worst tormentors. He'd thought about throwing his idea in her face before, but he was a better person than she was so he didn't.

Alongside his own family drama, the King attracted a fair amount as well. Thanks to Varys, who was a surprisingly good - if mildly terrifying - conversationalist, he knew that Stannis was on his way back to the city with a Red Priestess and his family in tow, as well as the fact that Renly was currently having an affair with Loras Tyrell. For the elder of the two the Red Priestess was the point of concern, for the younger it was the fact that he was shacking up with a Tyrell. The Red God was a violent fellow who had his followers burn infidels at the steak, while the Tyrells had been plotting to get a hold of the throne for years.

He would have to do something about the Tyrells, at least they could be appeased if you got a nice enough pie in front of their patriarch. He knew that the Queen of Thorns would probably be the voice behind Mace when they arrived in the capital, but he was willing to give just about anything for the fucking Baratheons to stop trying to destroy the Kingdoms.

As it was, he knew that all of the Wardens were on their way to the Capital, and would arrive a good week before Robert. The fat king was taking his time on his journey south, annoying every lord he crossed into letting him stay for the night and making sure that everyone knew that Jon Snow was so far out of their reach that they may as well not even try to find him.

You had to appreciate the king, he could certainly beat a dead horse better than most. And he was telling the truth, at that. Jon Snow had ventured beyond the Wall three months ago, and not a single word had been heard since. This, of course, didn't stop the stream of peasants and minor lords riding up the King's road in the hopes of joining the 'True King' or some such rot. But as much a Lord as Snow was, he was still a bastard. Robert had been very specific in that, he'd declared the lad a lord, but also that he would never become a member of either of the noble families that had birthed him. He could never become a Stark, nor could he ever claim the name Targaryen.

On the subject of the Targaryens, Varys had told him that they knew of the existence of their lost nephew. He also revealed that they had no way of knowing how the former royals were reacting. It took weeks to get messages to or from Ser Jorah, as the Dothraki were very hard to pin down when they weren't razing a village or city. Tyrion was very happy that Robert was taking his time on his journey home, at least it meant that he didn't have to deal with any drunken declarations of war against the Dothraki.

He did enjoy the game. Being the temporary King gave him a sense of satisfaction when he pulled one over on the players who thought they were better. Like Littlefinger, who seemed far less smug now that his establishments were paying proper taxes, and years of back taxes. It had been fun, to find that little gold mine of bribery and corruption that the man had managed to turn the tax collectors into during his tenure as Master of Coin. Tyrion hadn't done more than demand the money back, mostly because a lord bribing a city official had never really been considered a crime.

As was often the case with large cities, the lords in charge had considerable investments and didn't want to pay the same amount as the peasants, or anywhere near the same amount. Thus bribery or plain evasion were quite common. It was just amazing how skilled Petyr Baelish was at it. The man had, by the records the Hound had sniffed out, been dodging taxes for so long that he was actually making money from the process rather than losing it. Though, really, Tyrion shouldn't have been so surprised, what with the fact that his most common commodity were whores.

Baelish had been angry at losing the money, but it was a paltry sum when compared with the amount that he made annually. Tyrion always shook his head when people claimed that Littlefinger stole directly from the crown. It was an understandable assumption, what with the kingdom falling so far into debt over only seventeen years. But what most people failed to take into account was the fact that Robert had foisted two wars on the royal treasury and then started drinking the rest away. After his rebellion he'd paid back every dime he borrowed to fight, that included debts to the Iron Bank as well as Houses Arryn and Stark, then he'd awarded the knights who'd supported him with large amounts of gold. After the Greyjoy rebellion he'd done much the same, rewarding any man who killed a reaver after Balon had taken the knee.

Littlefinger hadn't even been Master of Coin all that long, only about seven years. That he'd managed to only sink the crown's debt a single million was a damned miracle. Looking at how much the last two had helped Robert throw away, it was amazing that the crown was even still gold. Actually, he'd have to check that, he really didn't want to assume.

The crown in question was currently hanging from the frame of a bed while the King was busy enjoying himself with some whore in the Twins. She was a skilled girl, though older than he was used to whores being. It took him a bit longer than usual to finish, which he was sure she appreciated.

Once he was done, Robert pulled himself to his feet, with difficulty, and started pulling on his clothes. After that was sorted he turned to the girl and snorted, "How would you like to come with me and pop out some royal bastards?"

"I'd be honored, your grace," The whore smiles, "Though I don't think you'd be able to afford it."

"Lass, I'm the fucking King, I can afford anything I want," He tells her.

"I doubt you could afford the price my father would demand," She tells him.

The way she was moving was distracting him, though eventually his larger head managed to listen to her words, "You father?"

"Oh yes, your grace, you met him yesterday."

"Fuckin' hells, are you one of Walder's gals?" He demands

"Oh yes, your grace," She nods, "Though I'm sure half the people in the castle could make that claim."

"He hands his daughters out as whores?" Robert could never imagine doing something like that, it was horrifying. He wasn't even related to Myrcella but he could never do what Walder fucking Frey had laughed at doing.

"I'm sure his opinions on sex are well known, your grace," the Frey whore notes.

"What?" this was very strange

"If you can, do it. It explains why I'm gifted with so many siblings."

"Right," Robert turns, grabs his crown from the bed frame, and stomps out the door as quickly as he can.

Waiting for him in the great hall is none other than the sneaky bastard himself. Walder Frey was giving him the dirtiest grin he'd ever seen on a man, and he'd seen a smirk on the face of Gregore Clegane.

"Welcome, your highness," the Late Lord Frey cackles, "I hope you had an… enjoyable night?"

"That was one of your girls," Robert accuses.

"So she was," The old man wheezes, "And you know what I heard?"

"I take it you've heard about my wife," Robert grunts, turning his head slightly to see Ser Barristan silently stepping along the wall.

"That I have, your grace," Walder nods, "A true shame, and I'm sure you understand where I'm coming from?"

"I do," Robert agrees, giving Barristan a slight shake of his head.

The old knight stops, and then steps out from behind Lord Walder and towards the King. The two lords are silent as Barristan joins Robert. He turns and nods to the Baratheon before turning his head to glare at the Frey.

"The hell was that?" Walder Frey demands angrily.

"A nasty surprise that could have turned out a lot worse for you," Robert tells him, his grimace of distaste coloring his words with a hard edge, "you're lucky, Frey, that I need a new woman to pop out an heir."

The deliberate missing of his title rankled at Walder Frey, but he took solace in the fact that he could now be part of the royal family, "Excellent, your grace, what now?"

"Now?" He turns to Barristan, "It the train ready?"

"Yes, your grace," The Commander of the Kingsguard nods.

"Is the Frey girl with it?"

Barristan nods again.

"Good," Robert turns back to Walder, "i'll be taking your girl with me, and chances are I'll be using her to make my heir. If you or any of your litter try to use your familial connection with any child I have, I'll have Lord Hoster raise the Twins. I know he's been itching for a reason."

Walder is silent, a bitter old man who'd used his children for his own gains for years foiled with the promise of death. He couldn't even threaten the King, as he did so many other Lords who tried to cross the Twins without giving him anything. The King could kill him, or have somebody else kill him, and just as easily name whoever did the deed the Lord of the Twins. Nobody would bat a fucking eyelash, the cunts, nobody would lament the permanently Late Lord Frey.

Robert exits the castle without fanfare and with the help of three men gets onto his horse. He is surprised when his possible future wife rides up next to him in a horse that looks about six days from dead, "Your grace."

"Alright Frey," He doesn't bother remembering her first name, and just assumes that she is actually a trueborn rather than a bastard, "Your father and I have spoken, you belong to me now."

"Oh, what fun," She snorts, "i'm sure the whores will go spare!"

Robert snorts, surprisingly amused. It wasn't just her attitude that got his jollies off, or the frankly average sex, but the fact that just about every lord in Westeros would be taking his choice as an insult, even Walder Frey. It was beautiful being King, especially one that was far enough away from the eight people he actually gave two shits about. The Starks were all in the North, the Imp was handling King's Landing without him, and Ned should be able to get the hell out of the city without too much trouble now that Flee Bottom was near a burning wreckage, if Varys's reports on the new Hand's activities were anything to go by.

It seemed that everything would be fine.

…

…

Fuck, now something had to go wrong, there was some kind of rule about it. Robert had to wonder where the shoe would drop, and hoped that it wasn't on his friend. He didn't mind if it dropped on him, really, he'd been waiting for it since he'd won his last war.


	10. Discussions

**Kill the Boy 10**

The chamber in which the Small Council met was quiet. It held only three people within, only one of which was actually on the Small Council. Within the room was Ned Stark, Tywin Lannister, Mace Tyrell, Lysa Aryn, and Tyrion Lannister. They'd were sitting quietly, waiting for the meeting to start. It wasn't that there was some great ceremony, or something else to wait on, it was just that the Hand had suggested they save their discussion for after their lunch.

Tywin and Ned were able to see that Tyrion was stalling for time as something was arranged, while the other two were simply content to enjoy the simple feast in front of them. Lord Tyrell had finished what he thought was an engaging story about some of his glory days from Robert's Rebellion, completely failing to grasp that two of the people at the table with him were on the other side of the war, and the other two had betrayed his house to win it. Lady Aryn was just quiet because she was worrying about feeding her son.

Eventually servants came and took away the cleared dishes and refilled cups with wine or water, and the discussion could begin in earnest. Nearly as one, the Wardens looked to the Hand to start the debate, "Well, I'm sure we all know why we are here, my lady sister, former queen Cersei Lannister has been caught in an affair that has lasted for at least as long as her marriage. My brother, Jamie Lannister is accused of aiding her in hiding the affair. Both crimes are against the crown, but due to the nature of his relationship with the Lannister family, the King has seen fit to step away from the affair until judgement has passed."

"And it gives him a chance to whore across the kingdoms with that new Frey bride of his," Lysa spits.

Tyrion gives a grimace smile, "Indeed, the King has taken a liking to his new queen, and they both seem to share a taste for excess."

That the King had married a Frey was upsetting, that she had turned out to be as big a whoremonger as he was catastrophic. One Robert had managed to set the crown six million dragons in debt, he couldn't even conceive of the damage two of him would do. Already the King had sent three letters demanding new chests of gold to spend. It was insanity, how quickly the pair of them went through coin.

"We are not here to discuss the King's actions," Tywin grunts, "We are here to talk about my daughter's punishment, and my son's."

It is clear that the more pressing for the Warden of the West is Jamie. Tyrion would not enjoy breaking him of his hope that Jamie would get a slap on the wrist and banished from the court.

"Yes!" The boisterous Mace nods, "We've been dawdling enough, let's get to the meat of the issue!"

"Lord Mace, please," Ned sighs at the man's volume, "This is a solemn affair."

"Not that solemn," Lysa spits, "The trallop spat on the King's name and in his face for seventeen years!"

"Careful girl," Tywin growls, "You speak of my daughter."

"Oh, do I?" Lysa snorts, "I apologize, I thought we were speaking of the whore that betrayed the Seven kingdoms!"

Tyrion slams his goblet down on the table before his father can rise, "Enough."

Eyes turn to him, and he revels for a second in their complete attention. After making sure to lock eyes with his father and Lady Aryn he says, "I will not have this discussion devolving into a row. We will keep civil tongues or we will break for recess. The more we break, the longer this will take, the longer this takes, the more frayed our nerves will get. I wish to settle the matter as quickly and as peacefully as can be done. You will keep a civil tongue, Lady Lysa, or I will have your son in here instead of you."

"What!?" Lysa snaps, "My sweet Robin is but a child!"

"He is, and yet he is as old as I was when the Ironborne burnt Lannisport. If I, a stunted dwarf, could find it in myself to slay a reaver that managed to find me; your son, who does not have my disadvantage, can manage matters of state."

Tywin narrows his eyes at his son, knowing the dwarf's recollection to be a lie. He turns his gaze to Lady Aryn, and sees that she believed him, though. It was the tone of voice, something Tyrion alone had inherited from him, a surety of speech and purpose that made every word law. It would do well to remember that in all the ways that Tyrion was flawed, he was still Tywin's son.

"Very well," Lysa grunts.

"Will there be any more issues?" Tyrion asks the table at large, looking directly at Tywin.

"If she keeps a civil tongue, there will be no issues," Tywin tells him, already thinking of ways to get Ser Gregor into the Lady's room and out again before anyone realized the life had been choked from her.

"Good," Tyrion nods, hoping that the problems would end there. He brings the subject back to the reason they were there, "So, my Lords, my Lady, does anyone have a true suggestion?"

Ned is the first to lean forward, and everyone turns their eyes to him, "Jamie Lannister cannot be allowed to remain in the Kingsguard, of course, but more than that I feel that he should be sent to the Wall."

"If that is how you feel, why was he not sent there with your nephew?" Mace demands to know. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond knew Jon Snow's true parentage by now, but it was clear from Lord Stark's flinch that he was not used to that fact.

After a brief pause, he says, "The King thought that in order to avoid war, Lord Tywin should be given the chance to help determine the fate of both his children. Over the course of my voyage to the Capital, I have come to agree with this decision."

"Thank you, Lord Stark, for your consideration," Tywin nods to the man, and though he did not like the Warden of the North, he did respect him.

"You would go to war over a criminal?" Mace asks, aghast.

"Would you not do the same for your son?" Tywin asks, then looks around, "Would any of you?"

There is a moment of silence as the Wardens thought about Tywin's words, and in the end they had to agree with his reasons. Each of them validated their choices in their own way, but in the end it boiled down to the fact that they would kill or die for their children. Either was a viable option at the end of the day, though the plan did involve the other side dying instead of them.

"So we are all agreed that this situation is delicate and could easily lead to a war that the realm cannot afford," Tyrion notes, to the nods of everyone at the table. He indicates Ned with his hand, "Lord Stark has proposed sending Jamie Lannister to the wall to atone for his crimes, are there any objections?"

"I, of course, object," Tywin tells him, raising an eyebrow, "I will not have my son be sent to the end of the earth to die at the hands of the cold or a wildling."

"Exile then?" Mace offers, "Clearly we cannot send him to the wall without Lord Lannister declaring war on the rest of us, but we cannot let the Kingslayer go!"

"There have been larger crimes that have led to exile," Ned nods along with Mace's words.

Tyrion and Tywin eye Mace suspiciously, doubting if the man's words had come originally from his own mind. Both knew that the true power in Highgarden was held by the fat fool's mother, the Queen of Thorns. She had no doubt seeded the idea of exile into Mace's head long before this meeting, so they both had to wonder what the hell she was playing at. Jamie up at the Wall or dead would be better for Highgarden, it would increase their own power and decrease Tywin's. But she had to be thinking long term, long enough that Jamie would probably be useful if he were ever allowed to return to the Seven Kingdoms.

"If we are going on about leniency, why not ship him off with a crate of gold and a valyrian steel sword?" Lysa snorts.

"No," Ned snakes his head, firmly, "If it is to be exile, he is to go in but the clothes on his back. He will not live off the gold of his family."

Eyes turned to Tywin, and the Lord of the Rock just nods, "Agreed."

After this first meeting, he would have to see about speaking with his son. Perhaps he could send the boy in the direction of the Targaryen brats riding with the dothraki. If he could get his son ingratiated with them, perhaps when the time came, as the winds seemed to be saying it would, for the return of the Dragons, House Lannister would stay aloft through the surge.

"Is it decided then?" Tyrion asks.

"I ask that I be allowed to speak with my son before he is exiled," Tywin says, putting his thoughts to action.

"Then you are agreed?" Tyrion asks.

"I am."

The rest of the Wardens nod with conviction, and the decision was made.

Thousands of miles to the north, an equally important decision was being made, though far more violently as Jon dives under the sword. He clambers to his feet and faces his opponent, a massive Thenn. The Thenn roars and slices down at him, which he sidesteps in the direction of his fallen sword. As the enraged wildling takes another swing, Jon drops below the slice and grabs his sword.

As soon as his fingers are around the hilt he thrusts up and his own blade sticks in the Thenn's stomach. As the man dies, Jon drops his sword and snatches the one in slackening fingers. Ice, strapped across his back, deflects a blow he hadn't even known was coming and he spins to face his next enemy. The next wildling, wielding a large double bladed axe, raises it to strike at him, only for an arrow to catch him in the throat and end his life.

Jon sags in relief, then looks around to make sure nobody else is going to charge at him from odd angles. Thankfully it looks like the area was cleared of attacking wildlings. He smiles to Ygritte, who rewards him with a cheeky grin as she steps up to him to give him a eck, "Well, lover boy, you think the Crows are going to let us through, then?"

Jon turned his head to look at the Wall, towering above them only minutes away. After he'd managed to convince Mance that they would be allowed safe passage through the Wall, the tent city had packed itself up quickly, but not before nearly half the wildlings had vanished into the snows. They didn't trust the word of a kneeler, and especially not one who walked with Crow. He didn't know why, but they had decided that they would kill any who joined him on his journey south.

This had led to more deaths than he could ever have guessed, dwindling the fifty thousand strong caravan of Free Folk down to forty thousand in a matter of a month and a half journeying straight to the Wall. Of the near ten thousand dead, Jon was lucky that only two of the Stark men were among that number, and they had died valiantly. They had died horribly as well, but he chose to think of getting boiled alive by geysers an afterthought to saving a pair of children from the same fate.

Now, three months after he, Benjen, Jory, and his ten guards had departed from the Wall, he had returned two men down and forty thousand up. It was going to be a bit of a problem feeding everyone, but thankfully the Free Folk knew how to make a deer last three weeks and be edible for two large families. Not to mention that they had brought all of their livestock, what livestock their was, and every bit of preserved supplies that they owned, and so long as winter occurred at the same time as it did last time, he should be able to get three or four harvests in before the snows fall in earnest.

The logistics of running lands fell to the back of his mind as he stepped out of the forest in front of the Wall. It always filled him with a sense of wonder and dread when he saw it, because it was proof that the White Walkers existed just as his scars were. They'd been fortunate not to run into any of the undead, but he knew they were out there. He was just glad he didn't have to draw Ice. He was never any good with greatswords, and would have made a damned fool of himself before he died.

Pushing more thoughts from his mind than had any right to be there, he stared up at the top of the Wall, knowing just how small he must look to those so high above. He wondered if he was even a person to them, if they thought like Aliser Thorne did. Wildlings weren't people, in their eyes, just monsters on par with the White Walkers. An enemy that had been fought against for thousands of years.

"Boy."

His eyes drop, and he is looking at Jeor Mormont. The old bear looked tired, but somewhat cheerful, "I see you've brought some guests."

"I have, Lord Commander," Jon nods, "Though they won't be needing to stay in your home, only mine."

"Aye, I figured as much," Jeor nods, then looks to Benjen, who'd stepped up beside Jon, "First Ranger, anything to report?"

"Yes, Lord Commander," the Black Stark nods, "There are roughly as many wildlings still aiming to kill us as are looking to make peace."

"And these are the ones here to make peace?" Jeor makes sure.

"Yes," Benjen nods, "They won't make trouble, I can promise you that, the worst of them broke off at the start."

"Good," The old bear turns his gaze back to Jon and nods, "As the King proclaimed, I will allow you and the wildlings through."

"Than-"

"But know this, boy," Jeor cuts him off, "The King gave you leave to do this only once, after your people are through, the gates will never open for any wildling but a dead one. Is that clear?"

"Yes," Jon nods, taking a breath, "Shall we get on, Lord Commander?"

Lord Commander Mormont nods gravely, and with that another forty thousand people are added to the population of the north.


	11. Whitewoods

**Kill the Boy 11**

It was a slow trek from the Wall to Jon's minor keep in the New Gift, which he'd named Whitewoods before he'd moved further north. It couldn't even really be called that, it was in such disrepair. It was a keep that had been home to a long forgotten house that died out centuries before even Aegon's conquest, and as such it was more a loose collection of rubble than a building made to hold of sieges. Jon was expecting to see his ruin after leaving the forests that dotted the Kingsroad for the first few miles south of the Wall.

He did not expect to see a bustling city.

There were wooden structures surrounding his keep, which had somehow been built up again in the three months that he'd been away. From his place at the front of the Wildlings, he could see hundreds of people bustling between buildings, farming at frozen fields, and generally bringing life to a land that hadn't had any not long ago.

"What's this, Snow," Mance steps up beside him, "I thought you said you didn't have any people of your own?"

"I don't," Jon tells him, eyes furrowed in confusion.

"They could be loyalists," Samwell notes, "I know my father always says that he'd have stayed the fight if Mace Tyrell hadn't surrendered."

"Ah, the blood in his veins carrying more weight than the deeds on his belt," Mance nods, "A fair assumption, lad."

Sam nods in thanks, and doesn't say any more. He looks to jon for an idea of what the Lord would do, but he is mildly disappointed when all he does is turn to look at Ygritte. The Lady Snow, who was as used to that title as Sam was of being the chosen Maester of the Whitewoods, was frowning at the settlement, "There's some folk on horses coming this way."

Jon nods, then starts to walk forward while everyone but Ghost remains behind. They watch as he meets the riders halfway and starts to talk with them. For Jon, it is strange to be walking towards what was once a broken keep he'd been expecting to repair. He hadn't expected to find a small city, or people, or anything like that on his new lands. He hadn't even settled there, and already it looked like a center for commerce, one that made no sense for the location that he was in.

He looked up at the approaching rider, and saw a Lion on a field. It wasn't in the traditional Lannister colors, he knew that, but it was definitely a Lannister offshoot. The rider stops a few yards away from him and takes in his appearance, seemingly counting identifying marks. When he reaches an apparent golden number he bows his head, "Lord Snow, I am Ser Gered Lannister, and i welcome you to Whitewoods."

"Thank you, Ser Gered," Jon bows his own head, "I find myself curious as to why you've come to my lands, and how it became so popular. When last I was at Whitewoods, they were but ruins, and I had only just named them."

"News of your lineage has spread quickly, My Lord," the Lannister explains, "And many are still loyal to the Targaryen name."

"So my camp is filled with loyalists to a dead family?" Jon asks, "One that I've been forbidden from ever being a part of?"

"Yes, your grace," Ser Gered nods, "You are of the North, so you may not understand some of our Southern ways, but we take great stock in blood. Even bastards can be lords, My Lord."

"So I see," Jon nods, then he sighs and shakes his head, "Very well, I am too tired to think at the moment, I will tell the Free Folk to settle themselves, and then I, my wife, my maester, and my guards shall retire. It has been a long voyage."

"The Free Folk?" Ser Gered looks at the assembled wildlings, "I thought you were traveling with Wildlings?"

"It is what they call themselves," Jon tells him, then waves for the man to follow, "I take it from your approach that you are the current authority in my lands?"

"Yes, my Lord," Gered nods, "When it became clear you would not arrive for some time, if ever, it was decided that a castelian should be appointed. My father was the Lannister of Lannisport, and so it was thought that I would make a good temporary stand in for you."

"Then how has Whitewoods been fairing, castelian?" Jon asks

"As well as one might expect from Southerners in the North, my Lord. We've managed, but it has not been easy," He sighs, climbing off his horse to walk beside Jon, "Nearly one in three die from the frost every day."

"Then there must be a large enough population for there still to be so much activity in the town," Jon notes.

"Our population grows daily," Gered nods, "Maseter Martyn, sent my the Citadel, drew a census last week, and it seems we have a population of a little more than twenty thousand."

"How is that possible?" Jon asks in wonder, "I would not have thought so many loyal to the old dynasty!"

"King Robert makes it easy, unfortunately," Gered notes, "And in recent months he has grown the resentment that most feel against him. Most of the population has come from those disgusted by their old lieges and still faithful to the power of the Dragon."

"Jon Snow isn't much of a Dragon," Ygritte laughs, and Jon realizes they'd reached the Wildlings, "He's more a winter storm, or akin to his wolf. Isn't that right Ghost?"

The silent direwolf leans into her hand as she scratchs him between the ears. Jon smiles at the display before turning his attention back to his escort, "Ser Gered, this is Ygritte, she is my wife by the custom of the Free Folk. Beside her is Samwell Tarly, he will train with Maester Martyn- I believe that's what you said his name was -to become the next maester. Along with that we have Jory Cassel and his men who will act as my guards and master-at-arms."

He then turns the man to Mance, "This is Mance Rayder, the current spokesman for the Free Folk. You will tell him where they can establish their homes."

"Ah, right," Ser Gered took all of the information in quickly, then nods in greeting to Mance, "My Lord, if you w-"

He stops when Mance raises a hand, "Not a Lord, boy, the Free Folk don't kneel."

Gered furrows his brow, ruffles a hand through his blond hair, then shakes his head and nods, "Very well… if you would direct your attention to the field between this hill and the town."

Mance turns his eyes to the large patch of ground. It was covered in snow, except for a single stretch of road that Gered had ridden down to reach them, "Aye, what of it?"

"All of that land is open for your people to settle in, they can of course move into the town if they so wish, but from what instructions Lord Snow left the few builders we were to leave you a large patch of land untouched for you to settle. Our only request is that nobody block the road, so that we can move carts easier."

Mance nods, then turns to the side, "Tormund, what d'you think?"

The ginger giant frowns, glares down the road, then nods, "I like it, more smooth than anywhere else we rested our asses, and it'll be easy enough to pack the snow. Plus, if we've got to move quick like, we can go in any direction."

Gered looks between Tormund and Mance, "You are happy with the area?"

"We are."

"Excellent, then I shall leave your people to it and escort the Lord and Lady Snow to the keep."

"You do that," Tormund snorts, "Kneeler."

Gered doesn't respond to the obvious jab, instead bowing his head to Jon once more before leading him and his main party towards the town. As they walked away from the Wildlings, the mass of Free Folk broke into a maelstrom of activity. Tents were pulled from backs, giants set about gathering their massive trunks for the tents, and everyone generally went about constructing their tent city once more. In the time it takes for Gered to lead his new lord into the boundaries of the town, the Wildlings are already finished with the first dozen or so tents at the end of the field and starting with new ones.

At the start of the town, they run into the first of Jon's new peasants. Dozens of people watch as he is led through the town towards Whitewoods, all turning their heads between everyone in his group and the bustling wildlings at the end of the field. It was curiosity that was pressing them, and when they finally realize that Jon is their long absent Lord, they begin to follow him towards his new keep.

Gered was considerate enough to walk his horse alongside them, rather than try to ride. It wouldn't be good to be seen riding while his Lord was not. He was a Lannister trained in politics, he knew how to act properly. Him walking beside Lord Snow would associate his presence with the lord's, and over time the people of the town would associate his word with Lord Snow's. That wouldn't be for some time, but he was already secure in his position as castelian.

By the time they reached the keep, they were followed by a massive crowd, filled with thousands of Jon Snow's new people. It was odd, looking around and seeing eager and excited faces. He purses his lips in thought as they reach the gates, thinking about how his father dealt with the people of Wintertown, and why the people of his unnamed town were so eager to see him. When the answer finally came to him, he stopped at the gates of his keep to address his people.

"Any who wish an audience with me will return in the morning, where from two hours past dawn until noon I shall answer any questions, concerns, or plees that may come before me," He tells the assembled crowd, his voice loud and hoarse, the last time he'd spoken at this volume had been during the battle for Hardhome, "Until then return to your business."

With direction from their new lord, the peasants, knights, and low lords dispersed, leaving the square in front of the keep nearly empty in a matter of moments. Gered nods, "Very well handled, my Lord, will you be hearing petitions and such every morning?"

Jon shakes his head, "Only on the first and last of each week."

"I shall inform the guards," Ser Lannister nods.

With that, they proceeded into Jon Snow's new keep.

A few miles to the south, in his old keep, Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy were having a conversation with a Wildling woman, "What's your name?"

"Osha," She tells him, hands bound in front of her, "And why have you separated from the main band?"

"Main band?" She asks.

"The forty thousand that Lord Snow has seen fit to take south," Theon grunts. He may not have liked Jon all that much, but you had to respect a guy who could convince forty thousand people to serve him, not even Lord Stark had that kind of charisma. Well, actually, probably Lord Stark, but definitely not his own father. Plus, the last time he'd seen Jon, the boy hadn't returned any of his usual barbs, and instead spoken softly to him. Nobody but he and Jon would ever know the contents of that conversation.

"Some southern lord's taken forty thousand Free Folk captive?" Osha asks, incredulously.

"He's offered them a place on his lands," Robb tells her, "And he hasn't made them kneel. I think that's a big part of your culture, isn't it?"

"Next to the raiding and the raping," Theon adds.

While Robb gives him a dark look, the woman chuckles, "Oh, aye, we don't kneel, even if it means saving our lives."

"So why aren't you with," Robb racks his brain for a minute, "Mance Rayder's band?"

"Mance is south of the wall?" Osha blinks in surprise, "Well ain't that a fine change in circumstance. Here I thought he'd never manage it."

"So you were once part of his group?" Robb asks.

"Aye," Osha nods, "But impatience makes fools of us all, it seems."

Robb sighs and asks, "Very well, then i just have to ask, do you want to live?"

Osha's eyes widen and after a second she nods, "I do."

"Will you kneel?" Robb asks her.

When placed in life and death situations like this, one had to seriously consider their options. Osha did not, "No, I won't."

"I expected as much," Robb nods, then turns to Theon, "Who do you think would be willing to escort her to Whitewoods?"

Theon blinks then raises an eyebrow, "You're letting her live?"

Robb nods, "I won't kill an unarmed woman, I'd rather send her back to her people. If we are to have peace with the Wildlings south of the Wall, we can't execute them all."

"She tried to kill Bran!" Theon objects.

"No, the man you shot in the back threatened to kill Bran," Robb disagrees, "She tried to steal a horse."

"Isn't the punishment for that getting your hand cut off?" Theon asks.

Robb furrows his brow, then sighs, "It is."

They turn their eyes to Osha, who is staring at them with wide eyes, "I have to kneel or lose a hand?"

Robb nods, his face a stony facade.

"Well fuck that, I'll kneel," Osha tells them.

"Really?" Theon blinks, "I thought you lot were hardier than that?"

"I need both hands if I want to do anything!" Osha objects, "and it can't be that bad, you lot do it all the time."

"I don't know whether to be insulted or impressed," Robb notes, having no idea that his words were being parroted hundreds of miles to the south by none other than Tywin Lannister.

"And what do you mean by that, father?" Tyrion asks, from his seat behind the Hand's desk.

"That you are Hand of the Kind and I am not," Tywin clarifies, "You would think that the King would trust a proven advisor if he was to hand the position to a Lannister."

"He would have, if he did not hate you so," Tyrion tells him, "I on the other hand, am a friend at best, and an acquaintance at worst. I have lamented my existence for long enough that when the King gets into one of his moods, I can sympathize."

"You are not the only one," Tywin growls, then he steeples his hands, "I suppose I should now ask you why you've called me here?"

"In a moment," Tyrion tells him, then hops off his chair to the wine cabinet and filling a single glass. He steps over to his father and holds out the glass, "You will need this."

Tywin narrows his eyes, but takes the glass, "Now I have my wine, why are we waiting?"

"We are waiting for-" There is a knock on the door, "Yes?"

"Lord Stark, m'lord," the page tells him.

"Ah, good, send him in," Tyrion tells him, and the Warden of the North steps into the chamber.

Tywin looks between the two and the sighs and takes a sip of his wine, "Very well, you have my attention."

Tyrion nods, "What we are about to tell you, father, is the truth."

"The truth? You mean I have been lied to?" Tywin raises an eyebrow.

"You have," Ned nods, "As have the rest of the Wardens."

"And why exactly have we all been lied to?" the Warden of the West asks.

Tyrion sighs, "Because Cersei's affair is more complicated than can ever be brought to light."

"How much more complicated?" Tywin's voice is the kind of quiet that it had been when he ordered the destruction of the Raines, or the sacking of King's Landing.

"The man she had an affair with was Jaime," Tyrion tells him, "He didn't just cover it up, he participated."

Tywin closes his eyes, lets out a breath, then asks, "Did you know of this, Lord Stark?"

"I was there when the matter was brought to the King," Ned tells him.

"The King knows?" Tywin opens his eyes and glares at Tyrion, "How did you convince him not to kill them?"

"He was startled by another revelation," Tyrion tells him.

"My nephew, Jon Snow," Ned supplies.

Tywin nods, "Hm, yes, Robert's obsession with your sister would have taken his attention. And so his anger was turned, but he still knows."

"He also knows what you would do if either were sentenced to death or the Wall," Tyrion nods, "So he chose to avoid it by shifting responsibility to the Wardens."

"And by including me he tries to ensure I don't start a war," Tywin frowns, "I do so hate it when fools prove more capable than expected."

Tyrion snorts and Ned frowns, but the truth is revealed, and as Tywin drains the last of his wine he has to wonder how to proceed. And whether or not the Mountain has managed to kill Lysa Arryn yet.


	12. Dark Thoughts

**Kill the Boy 12**

King's Landing was in an uproar when Robert Baratheon finally dragged himself and his retinue through the gates. It was not the kind of uproar that resulted in riots, though, but instead the kind that made people question every decision they'd ever made. Lysa Arryn was dead, she'd apparently taken a dive off of her chamber's balcony. When her remains had been found, it had only been because of her location that she'd been identified.

He shattered remains had been below her window, and the splatterings of blood on the way down led a clear path to her starting location. It was not a pretty sight, and young Robin had to be escorted to the other side of the castle as everything was cleaned up. When the servants talked about the boy, though, they spoke in horrified whispers about his excitement at seeing his mother fly. They had to wonder what was wrong with the nobles, if a boy of seven had such joy for his own mother's death.

An air of disgusted admiration was permeating the city, as the peasants were once again reminded of the fickle nature of the nobility. They recalled the dark times, when anyone could be taken from the streets and burnt alive for the amusement of the Mad King. They were grateful for the fact that the Fat King was not so cruel, and even more glad that the blonde bastard had been found out. The horror stories that the servants in the Red Keep would spread about Joffrey Baratheon, now Hill, were terrifying. None had looked forward to his reign, and all were glad that he was wallowing in his chambers, impotent to vent his rage.

But the former Prince could wait, because Robert had to deal with the death of one of his Wardens. Lysa had been insane, everyone knew it, but the question sifting through the Red Keep was whether or not she was crazy enough to throw herself to her death. Maester Pycelle, after getting a good look at the body and taking his time with an autopsy, put his two stags to claiming that he was confident that the death was a suicide. Tyrion Lannister and Ned Stark thought differently.

Tyrion knew that his father did it, knew in the pit of his soul. He saw the smug gleam in the man's eye every time he spoke of how tragic Lady Lysa's death was. Everything that his father did seared into the dwarf's brain, and spoke volumes about his guilt. He wasn't even really surprised at the act, or all that sorry to see the madwoman go, but he knew that Tywin's actions could have disrupted everything and plunged them into the war that they'd been trying to avoid.

Ned Stark only knew that Lysa had taken too much pleasure in trying to bury the Lannister twins to leap from a window. She was too happy at the meetings with he and the other wardens, she would not have thrown herself to her death without seeing the end of the deliberations. She'd enjoyed every moment of tormenting Lord Lannister, insulting Lord Tyrell, and snidely sniping at the Hand. She'd kept her verbal venom from him only out of love for her sister, though he was sure she slipped more than a few dark words in his direction that he could have missed. It did not matter though, because he knew she had made enemies, and he knew that for his wife he had to find the killer.

Robert learnt from both men that they did not believe that Lysa had killed herself, but he did not learn it at the same time. Ned was the first to meet with him after he'd settled into his chambers and learnt of the dark news. His oldest friend had explained his reasoning and his belief that one of the Wardens was responsible for the deed. When Tyrion spoke with him only an hour later, the fat monarch already had a good idea about who would have given the orders. Tyrion's explanation was mere icing on the cake as it were.

"Damnit dwarf, I gave you the job so your fucking father wouldn't do anything like this!" Robert growls, fists clenching and unclenching as he rested them on his desk, "Why would he do something so catastrophically moronic? That's my fucking job!"

"I don't know why he did it, only that it was done on his orders," Tyrion sighs, "My father does not take insult or criticism well. He sacked King's Landing because of a slight that Aerys made against him, who was his greatest friend in younger years, you know this. What do you think he would do against a woman he never even shared such a bond with?"

"He kill her," Robert deflates, rubbing his eyes, "Fucking hells, so what do we do?"

"That depends on you, your grace," Tyrion tells him, sighing, "I know you wished to avert a war, but now my father has done something that cannot be forgiven. At the same time, I have only suspicion to backup my claim, so we could let this go and pretend it is nothing but angry suspicion from a drunken imp."

"No, we can't," Robert grunts, "Ned may not know that it was Tywin fucking Lannister, but he knows that someone killed Lady Arryn."

Tyrion frowns and drains a goblet of wine as he tries not to agonize about his current position. He could do it, but he was the second most powerful man in the Kingdom at the moment, so it would feel rather spoilt. Complaining from a position of plenty was Cersei's way, and he didn't want to be compared to her. Instead he tried to think of a way to divert the Stark's attention away from his father.

Eventually, he comes to a realization, "The Targaryens are still with the Dothraki."

Robert's head snaps up to blink at the dwarf, he blinks. After a second a grin forms on his face and he wags a finger at Tyrion, "I do so like the way you think, Lannister."

Tyrion smiles sadly, raising his now empty goblet and telling the man in a sardonic monotone, "I live to serve, my king."

On the other side of the Narrow Sea, the Targaryens in question ride beside Ser Jorah as he fills them in on details that he's managed to learn from traders of their distant nephew. The knight is telling them, "The last trader I spoke with told me that the boy's finally returned from beyond the Wall, with an army of Wildlings near forty thousand strong."

"What are Wildlings, Ser Jorah?" Daenerys asks, not truly understanding the term.

"They are much like the Dothraki," Jorah tells her, "A brutal people who are made such by the harsh, ever present cold of the North beyond the Wall. They are trapped there, forced to make do with what they can, and given near nothing by the land itself."

"They sound a dangerous people," Viserys nods, "Perhaps the boy will prove useful after all."

"Do not suppose he would turn coat against the Starks so easily, your grace," Ser Jorah tells the man, "Even I have a soft heart for their family, and Lord Stark near cut my head off before I fled across the sea."

"Speak carefully, Ser Jorah," Viserys growls, "You speak as though you are still loyal to my enemies."

"They need not be your enemies any longer, your grace," Ser Jorah tries to placate the Beggar King, "They are connected to you through blood."

"They are connected to us through the blood of a bastard," Viserys snorts, "I would sooner call my horse a family, than the Usurper's dogs."

He snaps his reins and kicks his horse into motion, pulling ahead of Daenerys and Jorah. The knight sighs at the young man's refusal to listen to reason. It is only after a few moments that his attention is drawn to Daenerys, who is gazing at him with interest, "Yes, Khalessi?"

"You speak of the Starks with kindness, and yet they chased you from your home," She notes, "How is it that you can still hold good feelings for them?"

"Because I know my crimes, Khalessi," He tells her, "And I knew the Starks. Even their youngest boy has a good heart in him, and he has not even seen his first winter. I hate Ned Stark, but I do not blame him for passing the sentence against me. He did what he thought was right, blame him as I might, he is a stronger man that I."

"And what are your thoughts on my nephew?"

"I spoke with young Jon Snow only once, Khalessi. But he, more than any of Lord Starks other sons, reminded me of the Lord of Winterfell himself."

"And that makes him a good man?"

"Perhaps," Jorah sighs, "We all think we are good men, your grace. All I can say of Jon Snow is that he will grow into a man of convictions.

Daenerys sighs slowly, and lets her eyes drift into the far distance. She lets her mind wander, and wonders if she might ever meet the boy. She hoped that if they ever did manage to meet, that he proved a better man than Viserys. After months with the Dothraki, learning their way and coming into her own as the wife of the great Khal, she could hardly stand her brother any more. He was a spiteful, angry man who had wasted years of their lives on a mad hunt for an army. She knew they had started their time in Essos wealthy, and she knew that Viserys had squandered their wealth nearly the instant Ser Darry's body had grown cold.

They'd been thrown from the only home that Daenerys had ever loved, and now she was trapped with the Dothraki. As much as she may love her husband, she did so wish that she could have the kind of peace that came with the house with the red door. She'd been thrown out thanks to Varys at five years old, and had never managed to feel that kind of love for their home since. She knew she would never get that again, and especially not with the Dothraki and their nomadic culture.

And it was all thanks to Viserys, so she hoped that her nephew across the sea was a better man than her brother proved to be.

Jon wasn't sure if he was a good man, or even a kind man, given that he was sentencing someone to death. It seemed to him that from the moment he had woken up to now had been a blur of activity. After christening the bed, he and Ygritte had fallen into calm sleep, plagued by only the usual nightmares that haunt his dreams. He was awoken quietly by a servant, bathed, and woke Ygritte to tell her that food had been brought to them. The fire haired wildling had been confused, but enjoyed the meal anyway. It was a simple porridge with bread, but after so many miles on the road here, any meal would feel like a feast.

After they'd eaten, they moved to the main hall, where they met with Ser Gered. Jon, who was finally awake enough to talk with the Lannister with full interest, asked the man about himself. They'd had good conversation for a while, and it was only with the nearing of the second hour after dawn that they broke apart. Ygritte, who was eager to go hunting for their lunch, was taken by Ser Gered to be introduced to the keep's staff, so that nobody would try to stop her from coming and going as she pleased. Jon, meanwhile, remained in his seat and awaited the first of the petitioners to come to him.

It was this that brought him to the present. While most of the disputes brought before him were easy to settle and quickly finished, there were two matters that needed to be addressed last. The first was a case of murder, committed only the night before. Two of the common folk who had journeyed north had entered into a fight, one had pulled a knife and now his companion was dead. It was a clear case, without debate over guilt needed it had been easy for him to ask the question, "Your head or the Wall?"

The commoner, a tall man with eyes kinder than he'd expect on a murderer, takes a breath and tells him, "It'll be my head, then, m'lord. I may have come this far North, but I go no further."

Jon nodded, and he did as Lord Stark had taught him, and swung the sword. It should have been easy, without any guilt towards the man, but then he had learnt of the daughter. A small girl barely aged enough to eat solid foods, now without her father or anyone else in the world. So after the great hall of his keep had been cleared, Jon could not help but sit in silence with a cup of mead by his side.

Did he do the right thing?

Was the girl going to die?

As questions floated through his head, Jon couldn't help but imagine Olly. The boy had been a friend, and he'd stabbed Jon in the heart. Was he Olly now? To that little girl, was he the trusted authority figure that betrayed her and stabbed her in the heart. He hoped not, and in truth he was probably thinking far too much into the matter. He knew he had a habit of doing so.

"Jon?" he looks up and sees Sam stepping up beside him. The fat scribe smiles down at him and notes, "Something's on your mind."

"Aye," Jon nods, he looks up at Sam and shakes his head, "That girl, she's got nobody now. I've taken the last family she's got."

"You did," Sam agrees, "But that doesn't mean she has no one."

Jon raises his eyes to look at his friend.

"Gilly thinks the girl's cute, she wants to take care of her," Sam tells him, smiling at the thought of the girl he loved. Gilly, and some of Craster's other daughters, had been saved by Tormund when the wildling bands of the Lord of Bones had burnt the place to the ground before Jon's group had arrived. If the ginger man hadn't been scouting with his band, then there wouldn't have been any survivors. They weren't lucky enough to save the massive stores of food, but six of Craster's daughters had survived.

Jon smiles up at his friend, "You've got a good heart, Sam, as does Gilly."

"I know," Sam smiles, matching his friend, "Don't sit in the dark, Jon, I think Ygritte is back with your lunch."

"Is she?" Jon stands, "Then I suppose we ought to see what she's brought."

They make their way to the kitchens, where they do indeed find the wildling archer. She stands and watches as the kitchen staff destroy a perfectly good deer that she'd managed to kill. When she felt Jon arrive at her side she looks at him and asks, "Can you tell me why they're dicing it all up?"

"I don't rightly know," Jon admits, "When my home was Winterfell, the cooks would shoo me from the kitchens the moment they saw me. I suppose they're doing it so they can make it last longer?"

"There's a big barrel of salt right over there," Ygritte points, finger aimed like a crossbow, "And none of 'em have touched it for more'n a pinch of the stuff."

"I think they're preparing enough for the both of you and anyone who usually eats in the great hall. Probably the household guards."

"Speaking of, did you know that most of the folk with the spears were sent by your brother?" Ygritte asks, "Apparently he didn't trust the southern kneelers to watch your home while you were away."

Jon nods slowly, "That sounds like Robb. I'll have to send him something as thanks."

"Well you can do that after we eat," Ygritte tells him, then shoots a worried look into the kitchen, "If we eat."

Jon laughs and takes her by the shoulder, leading her out of the kitchen as his dark mood fades away into something more relaxed. He knew he would soon have to deal with more problems, and eventually he would have to worry about the White Walkers, but for now he did not have to think of such things.

He just had to remember to return Ice to Robb.


	13. Whispers

**Kill the Boy 13**

Robb Stark wanted to travel north. Jon was back below the Wall and settling into his new home, the place was growing at an exponential rate, and he missed his brother. It wasn't just him, either, it was the entire Stark family. He and Arya were the worst of the lot, but Sansa, Bran, and Rickon had all been feeling his absence.

Perhaps, actually, Sansa was feeling it in a different way than the rest of them. While Robb had thrown himself into the duties of the Lord of Winterfell, and Arya had finally convinced Ser Rodrick to help her learn the sword, which was only possible because their mother had drawn into herself and it was Robb that gave permission. Sansa, instead, had taken to sitting in the Godswoods.

To a southerner this wouldn't seem all too strange, she was a northern girl after all, but to Robb it said far more. Sansa had been the only one of the Stark children to take to the New Gods of the Seven, following in her mother's footsteps, but that seemed to be changing. She'd started spending hours in the Godswoods every day since Jon's departure, and none of her siblings had gathered up the courage to act until now.

Which was why Robb was taking a few hours to talk to her. He needed to know what had been weighing so heavily on her heart, he couldn't help her if he didn't have the full picture. When she hears his approach she looks up and smiles at him, and for a second if feels like there's nothing wrong in the world. But the smile droops quickly into a more neutral frown. She is glad he has come, but not glad enough to break her from her melancholy.

He sits next to her, looking into the reflecting pool with her. They sit like that for a few moments before he finally asks her, "What's wrong?"

"It was like I was all that mattered in the world," She tells him, after a second.

"What do you mean?"

She shivers, "When… whatever it was… happened to Jon, he looked at me like I was the most important person he'd ever seen."

"And that's what is making you so sad?" Robb asks, confused.

She sends him a look, "You know how I've treated him?"

Robb blinks, and thinks back to the times he'd seen Jon and Sansa interact with one another. From his earliest memories to his most recent, there were very few. But at the same time, there was nothing terribly dark to be seen in any of their meetings, "You were cordial, as I recall. There's nothing wrong with that."

"I treated him like… like he was another member of the household," Sansa explains, "He was not a brother, in my eyes."

"And that has changed," Robb slides from the bench and kneels in front of her, "Jon's… change… has affected us all. It does not matter how we were before, only how we are now. Remember the way you treated him, accept it, and embrace this guilt that you feel over it. He is family, true and loved, by you as much as the rest of us."

Sansa closes her eyes tightly, then takes a breath and nods, "And when next I see him?"

"Hug him," Robb tells her with a smile, then adds, "I am taking Bran and Arya to visit him in a few days while Mother stays with Rickon, would you like to accompany us?"

Sansa takes a deep breath, hiccups one last tear out, then nods, "That would be nice."

Good," Robb stands and holds out a hand to help her up, "Come, you should pack. I intend to stay for a few days yet."

Sansa takes him up on the offer and they make their way out of the Godswood. Time would tell if she would be able to forgive herself, but Robb knew that Jon never thought she had anything to be blamed for. Their reunion would be just what she needed, and though Arya might complain about her coming, she wouldn't complain too hard.

While the Stark family cleared their minds and prepared for a journey North, the roads in the south were being flooded with members of the Goldcloaks on the hunt for whoever had killed Lady Lysa Arryn on the orders of the Beggar King across the sea. The Lords of the Vale, though never fond of their Lady, were still patriotic enough that they wanted blood for the assassination.

In the Red Keep, matters were tense and the problem of dealing with Cersei Lannister was being put off for days. That was something that Petyr Baelish was making great use of, as he sat across from the isolated former queen. He'd bribed the guards into letting him enter, and even given them three of his whores for free. They were quite eager to accept and nobody would find the bodies after his men in his pleasure houses had dealt with them.

"Littlefinger, why are you here?" the Lady Lannister demands of him, seeing as all he'd done up to this point was enter the chamber and sit down without a word.

"I was seeing if there was anything I could do for you?" The Master of Coin smiles, "After all, you seem to be all alone in here, now your brother has been banished."

Cersei gives him a look filled with enough hate and supressed anger that he knew she'd have killed him if she believed she could get away with it, "Do not patronize me. Why are you here?"

"Matters have recently heated to the point that you've been mostly forgotten, your grace," Petyr tells her, and notes that her eyes shine with a small amount of suppressed glee at his use of her honorific, "The recent assassination of Lysa Arryn has certainly put a kink in things."

"That bitch?" Cersei snorts, "Who finally decided that her wailing was enough to end her life?"

"Your father," Baelish tells her without hesitation. He, and just about anyone in the Red Keep who wasn't Ned Stark or Mace Tyrell, knew the kind of cold certainty of truth that it was the Warden of the West that had arranged for Lady Arryn's death.

Cersei merely raises an eyebrow.

Petyr shrugs, not having expected much more, before continuing, "This, naturally, puts me in a difficult position. I had several plans that involved the lovely Lady Arryn, and with her passing I find myself without a way to make any of them happen."

"And how does that affect me?" the former queen asks, now irritated with the man.

"There was a great deal of gold invested in my plans," Baelish stands and stalks over to the Lannister, "And your brother has already taken a great deal from me. I want it back, your grace."

"And how could you possibly think I could get it for you?" Cersei asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Your father wants you released, and with Lady Arryn dead, there is a good chance that you will be," Littlefinger tells her, "Your children will not."

"Are you threatening my children, you.. You…"

"I am not," Petyr stops her before she can come up with a proper insult, "Robert intends to keep them as hostages against your machinations."

"And I suppose your plan involves them, somehow?" Cersei growls, hiding her fear that the whoremonger will take he daughter and put her to work in one of his pleasure houses.

"It does indeed," Baelish steps away and pours a cup of wine for himself, "If I am reimbursed for the failure that your father forced onto me, I will be able to give you back your eldest."

"My sweet Joffrey?" Cersei's eyes narrow, "Where is he now?"

"Wallowing in the cells below the Keep," Petyr tells her, "I believe the Hand has already told you why?"

She gives a stiff nod in return, wishing that her beautiful boy had actually succeeded and rid her of the bastard imp and his poisonous influence. It was clear that he had been the one to figure out her affair with Jamie and had told her fat husband in order to spite her. He had certainly benefitted from his betrayal. He would pay, in the due course of time, but she would have to be patient about it.

"What of my other children?" Cersei asks, "Why can you not free them as well?"

"They I cannot provide immediately because they are seen," Baelish tells her, "If they were to vanish it would be noticed."

"And Joffrey would not?" Cersei demands.

"He is due to be sent to the Wall in a matter of weeks," Baelish tells her, "I can arrange for my men to be escorting him, and have him brought to you instead."

"And all I need to do is arrange for you to receive payment for the task?" She asks.

He nods, smiling, and swallows the last of his wine, "I look forward to hearing your answer."

He leaves, and as the door shuts and bolts behind him, the former queen sinks into one of her chairs and ponders. She was furious with Littlefinger for thinking he could manipulate her so easily, yet at the same time she knew that he had succeeded. He could give her back at least one of her children, who she had not lain eyes on in months. It was a slow torture to be away from Joffrey, or Myrcella and Tommen.

Of the youngest two bastard children of Cersei Lannister, they were making due with their new position in life. A sad fact of it, Myrcella noted as she played with Tommen and his cats in their chamber, was that their life had probably improved with their mother and brother being imprisoned. Sure, she missed Cersei Lannister most days, but the woman had never been as attentive with her or Tommen as she was with Joffrey.

And then on the subject of that sadistic bastard, she was glad to hear he was rotting in the black cells. He had tortured her and Tommen for years, nearly from the day that they were born. His cruelty was subtle and none but they and the Hound had truly known the depths that he would sink to on a whim. She could still recall the pain on her foot being trodden on by a horse, and Tommen's wail of despair as Joffrey killed his first cat. Even held prisoner in the castle she'd known all her life, with guards ready to end her life if she proved dangerous, was better than dealing with Joffrey.

"And how are you two today?" The silky voice of Varys asks from the doorway.

Myrcella had not expected the strange friendship with the Spider, but she had gotten caught up with a talk he was having with her uncle one day. It seems she had impressed the spymaster, because he had taken to visiting her and her brother to keep them company every few days.

"We are well, Varys," She smiles, petting the eager kitten in her hands as she responds, "I take it something interesting has happened?"

"Now why do you say that?" Varys asks, his sly smile remaining unreadable.

"You spoke with me yesterday," She tells him, "You only come on odd days when something interesting has happened."

"You've noticed a pattern?" Varys raises an eyebrow, impressed.

"Fa… The King marrying a Frey, the Bastard Prince returning from beyond the Wall, Lady Arryn falling from her window," Myrcella lists the incidents, "And now I expect something equally as interesting has happened, otherwise you'd have saved it a few days."

"Very good," Varys nods, approving, "Well, to answer your question, it seems that Lord Baelish paid a visit to your mother earlier this morning."

Myrcella frowns, and absentmindedly scratchs the kitten in her hands between the ears as she thinks about what this might mean. It takes her a while before she ventures, "With the death of Lady Arryn, he must need a new noble beneficiary so that he can keep his position. If he integrates himself into my family's affairs, he may be able to get Lord Tywin to press for him to remain, perhaps even gain a new position."

"An interesting theory," Varys nods, and Myrcella smiles. Whenever the Spymaster said something like that, it was as though he were giving his approval for using her brain. She gotten more compliments on her intellect from the Eunuch than she'd ever gotten from her mother, or Robert before he'd learnt that she wasn't his.

Now she's put a theory on the table, she knows that she should move subjects, and asks, "Has Uncle come up with any prospects as to what to do with me?"

"Some," Varys nods, "He has been in talks with Robert about wedding you to one of his bastards."

Myrcella nods, knowing that such a situation would no doubt be the best she could hope for in marriage prospects. She was the bastard daughter of an unfaithful queen, no noble would dare marry her, and she was too valuable a hostage to marry out of the city. She asks, "Who are they thinking of marrying me to?"

"A blacksmith's apprentice on the Street of Steel," Varys tells her, "It seems that when the former Hand was looking into evidence of your mother's infidelity, the boy was the nail in his coffin as it were."

"He looks a Baratheon, then?"

"Black hair, blue eyes, and a near spitting image of King Robert when he first started his campaign against the Targaryens," Varys nods.

"And why am I to be wed to him?" She asks.

"Apparently, it was him or Edric Storm," Varys tells her.

Myrcella nods, "My… the King's bastard in Storm's End. He did not want me?"

"He did," the Spymaster disagrees, "But it was Stannis who objected, saying that if Robert were to give you to him, he would become even more convinced that he would be legitimized."

"And that will not happen to either the blacksmith's apprentice or me?"

"Correct," Varys nods, "At most the boy, Gendry, will be permitted to start his own house."

"Why would Unc- Stannis allow that, but not Edric's legitimization?" Myrcella asks, then thinks for a few moments and asks a follow-up, "Is the boy so skilled with steel that he could make a name for himself from that alone?"

"It seems that he has been doing the work for Tobho Mott, a master metalworker that has been responsible for many a nobleman's fine armor, for several years now," Varys tells her.

"And that gives the boy a right to his own house?" She asks.

"That, and Robert found the boy's complete lack of backbone, as he put it, insulting to his name," Varys tells her, "He intends to beat the boy into the shape of a man."

"Ah, manly pride," Myrcella nods.

"Exactly," Varys smiles, then stands, "But, I've kept you for long enough, my dear. I shall bid you a good day."

"Thank you, Varys," Myrcella smiles as he leaves.

The doors shut, and unlike with her mother's chambers, they do not bolt. She and her younger brother are free to wander the keep, though she refrains from doing so most days. The looks that she has received since the true nature of her birth had come to light have not been pleasant. She wonders how anyone deals with such hostility.

Benjen Stark was doing just that from his place on the Wall. He and his sworn brothers had grown tense around each other since his return with Jon and the Wildlings. To most, he was a traitor to the Night's Watch, and a cunt that cut and ran when he had the chance. He was gone for months while the Wall stayed. He alone is allowed to travel south to visit his brother in Winterfell.

The men of the Wall had always held a quiet resentment for him, especially those who had not volunteered to join the Black Brothers without the threat of the hangman's noose around their necks. Not many realized that what he did, every volunteer could do as well. They were forbidden from starting families of their own, not visiting the ones that already existed.

So while he dealt with the newly born hostility of men he'd fought beside for years, he also had to deal with something else he had not foreseen. The Targaryen loyalists were being respectful to him. Years ago, when he'd first joined the Watch, the men who were in the same camp as Ser Alliser Thorne hated him. He was a symbol of their loss, and yet he was at the Wall with them. They hated him, and he them.

But now it was Ser Alliser who was proving himself a friend, and his old allies among the Watch growing more hateful. It was a sad change, but one that he would have to live with, if he managed to survive the attack on the wall that he and his sworn brothers were fighting against. The Wildlings that had chosen not to join Jon were trying to break over the Wall, and they had managed to climb up the massive structure in the night and attack Castle Black.

Benjen caught an axe with his sword, twisted the weapon, and stabbed through the wildling's neck before the man could pull back. He ducked under a mace a screaming wildling tried to slam into his face and cleaved the man's arm off, then looked around for more opponents to strike down.

It was not to be, however, and instead he came face to face with a Wildling wider around and taller atop than any he'd seen before. The man roared at him and brandished two axes. The struggle against the Wildling was quick and brutal. He caught the man's first axe, dove back from the second, and stabbed forward.

His sword went through the massive warrior's stomach, and though it was clear that the Wildling was not long for the world, he was not going to go down without killing at least one Black Brother. Benjen couldn't help but scream in pain as the Wilding's axe digs into his left arm, nearly cleaving it from his body.

There is a terrible moment of clarity as he realizes that he isn't long for the world, and then the Wildling is lunging at him. Benjen screams in pain and rage as he and his attacker are sent over the edge of the Wall.

It takes until daybreak for the Night's Watch to claim victory, and until nightfall for them to realize that Benjen Stark has vanished. Word is sent to Winterfell that he is dead, and none notice that a trail of blood leads from the bottom of the wall into the forest, away from the destroyed corpse of a Wildling man.


	14. Settling Matters

**Kill the Boy 14**

There was something wrong in the air, especially if one were to look at Stannis Baratheon and his party. They had been in the Red Keep for a few weeks and the lord of Dragonstone had retaken his seat as the Master of Ships, and he had never been more displeased by the position. He had been the one to uncover the truth about the Lannisters, and yet with a few quick words it was yet another of their number that held the position of Hand.

Tyrion was perhaps the worst of the lot, as well. Stannis's hatred had naught to do with the dwarf's stature, but instead everything to do with how similar the youngest of the Lannister siblings was to his brother. A drunken whoremonger was the kindest thing he'd ever heard the Imp get kalled.

Even worse than his lifestyle was the fact that he was so effective at his position. Tyrion Lannister was a master statesman, perhaps even better than Jon Arryn had been. He'd adjusted the Crown's debt, restructured the Goldcloaks, arranged for the blame of Lady Arryn's assassination to be placed on the Targaryens, and managed to negotiate the marriage of several noble houses of the Crownlands to other lands to bind the realm together even further.

And so there was something foul in the air whenever Stannis was in the same room as the Imp. It was the same feel that existed between himself and either of his brothers. Renly was a lazy homosexual, which all but the most willfully stupid knew. Robert was a bastard in every way but birth. All of Stannis's hate and vitriol was aimed straight at his brothers, but some of it was extending to the Imp.

The little fucker was doing a better job of ruling than he ever would. There was no way about the fact, Tyrion was either bred or born for the position. He was ruthless when he had to be, kind when he could be, frugal in all matters, and amused by the world. Everything that happened brought the Imp some measure of pleasure, from fucking a whore to losing a thousand dragons of debt from one of the crowns many debtors.

It was for that reason that he was being obstinate at the moment, "I will not turn our military might into something used for commercial gain!"

Tyrion narrows his eyes, "Turning the Royal Fleet to trade and fishing will build our stores for winter and gold for the Crown's debts. We are not at war, and though the Ironborn remain a nuisance they are on the other side of the continent!"

"Your point being?" Stannis raises an eyebrow, and though he doesn't look, he knows that the other members of the Small Council are leaning in with equal interest.

"If we are to keep the royal fleet the military power you want them to be, it makes little sense to keep all their number on this side of Westeros. We may have to deal with the occasional pirate or smuggler from Essos, but there is an ironborn raid on a near monthly basis in the Reach and Westerlands."

"And yet your family has one of the largest fleets in the Seven Kingdoms, and I know from personal experience that the Reach's Lord Redwyne has one up to catching reavers."

Tyrion narrows his eyes, "You, as does everyone here, know that the Lannister fleet was devastated by the Ironborn fleet at the start of the Rebellion. Lord Redwyne has been trying to head off the raiders, but he too is still feeling the sting of the rebellion."

"And the royal fleet did not feel the sting?" Stannis demands.

"No, because you held them back," Tyrion growls, "As you are doing now."

"What are you insinuating?" Stannis returns with dangerous whisper.

"That you are letting old hatreds cloud your judgement for the betterment of the crown," Tyrion accuses, "Robert's Rebellion was seventeen years ago, let it go or begone from this council."

It is not just Stannis that leans back in shock, but everyone else present as well. There hadn't been so abrupt a declaration in the Small Council chambers since the time that Tywin himself had been dismissed from his own position as Hand.

"Very well," Stannis sighs, "I will send half the fleet to aid Lord Redwyne in his patrolling of the western coasts."

"I thank you for seeing reason," Tyrion nods, "Let us hope the Ironborn and the Greyjoys do not put up too much of a fight."

Theon Greyjoy smiled in satisfaction as his target was skewered through the head. It fell in a lump and as he trotted over to collect it, his thoughts wandered to the changes that had taken place in Winterfell over the last half year.

The most it had to do was with Jon and the revelation that the bastard was not Lord Stark's boy, but his nephew. Theon still didn't like the somber prick, but he could understand how having knowledge like that kept from you for years can shape a person. And then Jon Snow had departed for the north, and Theon had watched the Starks grow a bit more cold.

They were still the loving family that they had always been and Theon was always jealous of, but now they were less happy about it because their number would soon be splitting apart. After Jon had left, Lord Stark had gone south to deal with the royal situation, and the family had grown even more insular.

The ward of the Starks had taken the hint, especially when Robb had been so quick to snap at him the one time he'd made a quip about Jon after the boy's departure. Theon knew he was an ass, but at least he wasn't much of one when it came to his best friend. So as he pulled his arrow from the Rabbit's skull, he wondered how his friend was faring on his journey to the Whitewoods where Jon Snow had made his home.

Robb was crushing Jon into an embrace, glad to see his brother for the first time in months. Jon was giving him an equally strong embrace, and the rest of the Starks were quick to receive the same treatment. Sansa even gave a squeal of shock as she was twisted around in a circle as he hugged her as tightly as he dared.

"If I didn't know she was his sister, I'd be a jealous woman," comes an unknown voice from beside him, and he turns to see a girl near his and Jon's age with the brightest red hair he'd ever seen, even on the Tully blood in his family. The girl looks over to him and smirks, "So, you're the lord brother he'll be expected to run after whenever you go to war?"

Robb furrows his brow, but nods after a moment, "Aye, I am, and you are?"

"Ah, apologies your worship," The girl falls into a bow so ridiculous that it garners a laugh from Arya on his other side, "I am Ygritte, and you Kneeler folk have taken to calling me the Lady o' the Woods."

"Why do they call you that?" Arya asks, sliding around Robb and looking up at Ygritte with interest.

"Well, a few reasons little girl," Ygritter smirks again as Arya's pout at being called little, "Most important being that I've got quite a bit of skill with the bow and love bringing back me own food to the keep."

"Any other reason?"

"Oh, aye, me sharing a bed with that lump," She points at Jon who is giving Bran a hug now, "Probly has a lot t'do with it."

"You're the one he went north for?" Sansa asks, curious, having moved over to them as Arya takes her own turn in Jon's tight embrace.

"Seems I am," Ygritte nods, and the smile she gives is one of genuine heart, "The way he was talkin' bout me afore he even knew I had an arrow trained on him was a lot of beautiful."

Sansa smiles, glad to hear that Jon was happy, and even happier that he'd given her such a tight embrace. The hug had drained the fear from her about their reunion in an instant. While Ygritte's attention turns to Arya, the elder Stark let her gaze roam across the courtyard of Jon's Keep. It was fairly sparse, and not nearly as filled with activity as Winterfell had been.

Whitewoods was a young Keep, and so the feeling of life in the stones that made up the building was not there. It was merely a place to live, and not yet a home. The people that she watched move through the yard were going about tasks with the resigned nature of people going about their work, rather than their duty. They had less of a spring to their step than the servants of Winterfell, and instead they looked to have a sense of purpose instead.

She understood that, actually, they were building something in this northern land with a new lord. One that Robb told her most saw as the 'Banished Prince.' It was a fanciful title, but what great story didn't start with a hero with a fancy title. If the realm ever fell into chaos over the matter of succession, she was sure that she and her entire family would side with Jon.

She turned her gaze to him again as he and Robb spoke together, catching his words, "Father is still in the south?"

"Yes," Robb nods, "Aunt Lysa is dead, and we have received word that the suspicion is assassination."

"Truly? Again?" Jon shakes his head, "She is an unfortunate woman to have fallen prey to Baelish again."

"Baelish?" Robb scratches his beard, "You said that he'd been the one responsible for your death before you returned to us at the feast, are you saying that he was also responsible for Lady Arryn's death?"

Jon nods, "Sansa told me that he threw her from something called the 'Moon Door.' It seemed a sore point, I did not pry further."

Robb nods, and Sansa can see the wheels turning in his head. She, and everyone in the Stark family, had seen that their eldest brother was more inclined to take Jon's experience as prophecy. He took every word that their cousin said about the future that would not happen, and was determined to avert it. She knew that he would probably send a raven to father, detailing what Jon had told him.

Father would naturally do nothing, having proven himself unwilling to change the way that he saw the world. Ned Stark believed the future averted from the start, and so acting on information Jon that wasn't already in motion was a foolish endeavor. Their father was acting to avert a war of succession, battle the White Walkers when they came, and keep the realm together. He did not have time for conspiracy.

What Ned Stark did have time for, were meetings between the Wardens. They had put off dealing with Cersei Lannister for long enough, and the matter needed to be settled. It was especially important because the young Lord Robert Arryn was not one to last through long meetings.

"When can we get lunch?" Was nearly the first thing the boy asked.

"A good question," Tyrion tells him, humoring him, "It will be at noon, which is in three hours."

"Oh no!" The child wailed piteously.

"There, there, my boy, we've got wine and bread to keep our stomachs occupied until the noontime meal!" Mace exclaims happily. Ned and Tywin were fairly certain that the fat man was looking forward to trying to marry his daughter to the young Arryn. They also knew that the girl would rule the Eyre in a year, if the rumors about her relationship with her grandmother were accurate.

"Thank you!" the boy smiles as Mace hands him both the drink and the snack and starts obliviously munching on the bread.

"Well, now that's settled, we should move on to actually dealing with the matter of my sister," Tyrion notes. He leans back in his chair, and Tywin notes that he does not have a goblet near his person; perhaps responsibility had sobered the mongrel some.

"Yes, this affair has kept me in the capital too long," Tywin agrees, and notes a sullen nod from Lord Stark as well.

He was glad he would not have to incite war with the North. Stark was a solid man, but one unused to the deceptions of court. He had no doubt that if the man had not learnt of Cersei's affair until he had reached the capital, she would have arranged his death. Even as vain and stupid as she could be, his daughter had been well trained in the game of thrones.

"My brother is to be banished to Essos within the fortnight, and the King would like Cersei to be dealt with by the time Jaime is on his boat," Tyrion tells the room at large. He pulls a paper from his sleeve and sets it down, "The King has given the opinion that Cersei should be executed for treason, or her hair shorn from her head and sold to a brothel. Now, neither of these options are viable if we wish to avert war, and that is exactly why he has so graciously passed the task to us… ideas?"

"Perhaps we could send them away together?" Mace suggests, "If we cannot perform the usual punishment for treason, what else is there?"

"No," Tywin grunts, "I will not have Jaime poisoned by her idiocy again. She will remain where she can be watched."

"And who would do the watching?" Tyrion asks, "The king has declared that whether we come to a decision or not, both of my siblings will be gone from the capital by the end of day two weeks from today, or whoever was still within its borders would lose their head. He grows as impatient as the rest of us to see Cersei receive her just rewards."

"Is he truly so tired of our company?" Mace asks, surprised. He had thought the King was enjoying his attention!

"It is not your company he tires of, Lord Tyrell, but that of my dear sister," Tyrion tells him, smiling convivially.

Mace nods, mollified.

"What did the bad lady do?" young Lord Robert asks.

"My sister laid with another man, and because of that she has betrayed the realm," Tyrion tells the boy, brows furrowed at the young man. How could he not know what was happening in the very chamber he was in?

"Why not have her pay it back?" the small Lord asks, "Mommy always used to say that the silent sisters were paying back the realm for being dirty.. Uh… something.. 'Hhe' was the start of it."

"The word, Lord Arryn, is whore," Tywin growls, now more glad than ever that he'd arranged for the bitch to stop breathing. He takes a breath, then asks, "Are you suggesting that we send my daughter to join the faith?"

"Well, wouldn't she be paying back the realm?" Robert asks, taking a nervous bite of his bread.

"She would indeed," Tyrion tells him with a smile, "And that seems our first idea of this meeting; send dear Cersei to join the silent sisters! Ha, I love it!"

Not even his father's harsh glare could detract from Tyrion's mood at that moment. Just the thought of his sister being forced to take the vows of that order would be giving him a smile for years to come.

"I have no thoughts that could create a better solution," Ned Stark notes, "Lord Lannister?"

"I've… nothing, either," Tywin grunts. He was not happy with the possibility, but he did not intend to see Cersei dead, and she could do a great deal from behind the veil of a silent sister.

"Very well, we will put it to the vote," Tyrion nods, glad that the meeting had only taken a few minutes. He almost wondered why it had taken nearly a month to begin with, but then his eyes drifted to his father and he remembered that the bastard had held them up all that time because he could never let an insult go. He looks between the lords, oldest to youngest, "Is anyone opposed?"

None objected, and he nods and writes a brief missive detailing their decision. He then looks to his father, "Would you like to see her before she is sent to join the silent sisters?"

Tywin thinks for a moment, then shakes his head, "No."

As the Lord of the Rock declines, he acknowledges that he has given up on the girl. Any plans she hoped to achieve were now hers to deliver on. He would wash his hands of her until she did something to deserve his attention. Until then, she was merely the living dead.

As Tywin stands and departs, Ned sighs in relief. It seemed that matters were going smoothly across the realm. All that would trouble them would be the dangers of the Targaryens and the White Walkers. He had years to prepare and worry about either threat, thankfully.

One by one the lords departed from the room, Mace and young 'Sweetrobin' Robert the last to leave. The fat lord was doing his best to give his wife to the child. Tyrion watches as they vanish through the doors and sighs in relief at the conclusion of the troubles, and he almost misses the noise.

His head jerks to the wall to his left, where he can swear he hears footsteps receding from the room. He stands and slowly pulls his letter opener from the table as he waits to see what emerges. Nothing does, and after a moment he relaxes and takes a breath to relax himself.

But then a new sound attracts his attention, and he turns to see Varys entering his chambers, accompanied by young Myrcella. He blinks at their arrival, setting the letter opener back upon the table, "Varys, Myrcella?"

"My Lord Hand," Varys bows his head as the girl gives her uncle a quick hug, "We bring interesting news."

"What kind of news?" Tyrion asks.

"The kind that could shift power," Myrcella tells him, then holds out a small scroll for him.

He takes it and notes that it has already been opened. He unfurls the parchment and reads quickly, "Baelish?"

"Indeed," Varys nods, "According to young Robb Stark's letter to his father, Baelish could be responsible for Lady Arryn's death. He does not cite evidence, but claims that the Banished Prince is the one who gave him the clue."

"The Banished Prince?" Tyrion raises an eyebrow.

"Jon Snow," Myrcella tells him, "It's what some of the common folk are calling him."

"Of course they are," Tyrion sighs, "So now Lord Stark suspects that his wife's childhood friend is behind the death of her sister."

"And it is not just that," Myrcella tells him, "Lord Varys told me that mother met with Lord Baelish as well."

"No doubt attempting to negotiate some kind of deal," Tyrion nods, "Any more interesting news?"

"Yes," Varys nods, "It seems that Littlefinger is also trying to gain control of young Lord Arryn through the use of proxy, and a few of the Eyre Lords he supplies with gold."

"Petyr seems to have many webs, more than you, Varys," Tyrion notes.

The Spider just nods, his usual enigmatic smile replaced with a grim line.


	15. Meetings for the North

**Kill the Boy 15**

"Lord Stark," Jon smiled at Robb, his cousin now, but his brother all his life.

"Lord Snow," Robb returns, an equal smile on his face.

The pair had split from the rest after dinner, retiring to Jon's solar to talk business and politics. They'd started with their usual sharing of names and now it was time to exchange proper information. Jon was the first, moving behind his desk and picking the ancestral sword of the Starks from the cloth he'd set it on when he'd taken up residence in Whitewoods, "I return to you Ice, and hope it serves you as well it did me."

"You drew the blade?" Robb asks, eyes widening. He knew that their father had made Jon swear not to draw the blade for anything less than a white walker itself.

"No, thankfully," Jon assures him, "But it saved my life from the more disagreeable of the wildlings, several times."

"But.." Robb furrows his brow.

"They were not all as agreeable as my wife or Mance Rayder," Jon tells him, "I brought near half the wildling army south with me, but there are still near sixty thousand beyond the Wall, readying their forces to attack."

"That is alarming," Robb frowns, rubbing his beard as he thinks, "With the troubles in the capital, the North may be alone to face down this danger."

"I saw that you penned a letter," Jon notes, thinking of what he'd seen Robb doing during dinner, "You sent word that you now suspect Baelish of Lady Arryn's death?"

"I did," Robb nods, "He needed to know about the possibility."

"What do you think he's going to do with your letter?" Jon asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I hope that he brings the man to justice," Robb grunts, "If this man killed our aunt, twice, and perhaps even you, I will see him pay the price!"

"And what of when Lord Baelish wins the fight between himself and Father?" Jon grunts, then smacks the arm of his chair, "Damnit Robb, we need Father in the North, not caught up in more southern intrigue!"

Robb narrows his eyes at his brother, "You don't wish to see justice done?"

"Justice doesn't matter if Father dies again," Jon tells him, leaning forward, "I do not want to see that happen again. This could destroy us all over again, brother!"

"But if we do nothing, then we just let this crime go unpunished," Robb objects.

"Crimes have gone unpunished for far longer and for far greater actions," Jon tells him, "You realize that I once had another brother and another sister?"

"What?" Robb asks, not sure where Jon was going.

"I once had a brother, Aegon, and a sister, Rhaenys," Jon reminds him, "Their murder is a crime that has never been punished. You were killed at Uncle Edmure's wedding, and yet that crime was never truly punished. Crimes of grand nature are never truly punished, or the Night's Watch would not be filled with criminals."

Robb frowns, "Is that why you are so happy to have been banished so far to the north? You don't have to deal with the trials of the capital?"

"Sansa once told me something she learnt from Cersei Lannister," Jon notes, thinking back, "In the Game of Thrones, you either win or you die. I have no interest in dying for a third time before I am an old man, happy and gifted with Grandchildren. With what comes for us beyond the Wall, I will be lucky if that becomes a possibility, but I will not be caught in a game of warring kings again."

"And I suppose you hope the same for us?" Robb asks.

"I do," Jon agrees, "I do not hold it against you, trying to see that Baelish pays for the crime. But he may not have been the one responsible for Lady Arryn's death again."

"True, but we need to help father close his investigation quickly, else he might stay in the south longer than he promised," Robb objects.

Jon sighs, and tries to think about what their father might be getting himself into right then.

Ned Stark was taking his evening meal with Mace Tyrell, actually. Ned hadn't really talked with Mace for several years before this incident with the Lannisters. He'd last shared words with Lord Tyrell when he'd arranged the man's surrender at the end of the Rebellion. It was calming to see that the large man didn't truly hold the loss against him, but then it was said that Mace Tyrell was not the smartest man in the world.

"It was so kind of you to invite me to dinner, Lord Stark," Mace smiles at him, "It is a real treat, and especially now that we may be something of an extended family!"

"Of course, I am truly happy to hear of your successful engagement between young Lord Arryn and your daughter…"

"Margaery," Mace supplies helpfully, "She will be a boon to the Vale, I know it! Mother may have wished to see her wed to the prince, but seeing as that is now impossible, I think that this will make her happy."

"I'm sure that it will," Ned agrees, the reputation of the Queen of Thorns not having reached him quite yet. Thus, all he thought of it was the interests of any mother or grandmother towards ensuring that her family expanded beneficially. He smiles at Mace and tells him, "It is actually for the matters of marriage that I wish to talk to you this evening."

"Oh? Truly?" Mace asks, and he swallows a gulp of wine, before smiling excitedly, "I take it you wish to arrange something between one of my sons and your daughters?"

"Indeed," Ned agrees, "I'd hoped to speak of you about wedding your eldest son with my eldest daughter, Sansa."

"Hm, Willas is a good decade older than your girl, isn't he?" Mace asks, "Unless I am messing dates again, it does happen occasionally."

Ned raises an eyebrow, curious as to how a man could muddle dates like that, "I think age is not as important as interaction, and I have spoken with Ser Loras, he spoke very highly of his brother."

"Yes indeed, my boy is the best breeder of horses, hounds, and even hawks in all the Kingdoms! He needs a good head on his shoulders to manage that," Mace takes a large bite of his meat as he prattles on, and as he speaks Ned drowns out his words as he watches with both fascination and horror as the food is destroyed by the fat Warden of the South.

After a few minutes, he has to clear his throat to stop Mace from talking any more, then he tells the man, "I'd like to invite Willas to Winterfell to meet my daughter."

"You do know that my son is not as capable of long travel?" Mace asks.

Ned tilts his head in question

"His leg was… damaged… during a tourney several years ago," Mace tells him, looking away, then mutters angrily, "Oberyn Martell crippled him."

"Then he can make an extended trip," Ned tells him, "My family is wary of venturing south, and after my good-sister's fall I am even more so."

"Ah, yes, understandable," Mace nods, trying not to think of the woman's death. After wiping a cloth over his mouth he nods, "Shall I send a note to my son, telling him of the arrangement?"

Ned blinks, not having expected Mace to accept so quickly. He smiles and nods, "Please do so, if you wish for him to journey to King's Landing I can escort him to Winterfell myself."

Mace claps his hands, which sends a bit of butter at Ned, and he barely has time to blink before it sails over his head, "That sounds wonderful! I'll send the letter off at once!"

He leaps to his feet and rushes out of the room. Ned watches him leave, then shakes his head in bewilderment before he actually starts on his own meal. Mace had made such a display of himself that Ned couldn't stand the idea of eating while the fat man did.

As he takes his time on his meal, he thinks on something other than the fat man who just left, Robb's letter. His son was so eager so place blame for crimes committed in a life none of them would lead. Circumstances had changed so considerably that he was certain that it would be impossible to resurrect the same circumstances.

All he really knew was that he meant to keep a closer eye on the goings on between the Boltons and the Freys. That decision was informed by history supplied not only by Jon, but experience as well. The Boltons had long been an antagonistic vassal house, and Roose was an excellent example of their dangerous silence. He was a good vassal, but he was a dangerous man. And if the word he'd already received of Roose's bastard was accurate, he would have to share words with the man. It was not something he was looking forward to.

As for the Freys, nobody liked them. They were nearly vermin, their mousy looks are weasel like attitudes just expected that they would be responsible for a terrible betrayal. Walder Frey held his family in control, but he would not be surprised if the family fell to Kinslaying as soon as the Late Lord Frey died.

Ned would not trust the man as far as he could throw him, and already he'd sent word to Lord Tully about the possibility of constructing new bridges along the Green Fork. He hadn't phrased it in a way that spoke of the Twins, but he knew Hoster Tully would see what he was aiming for. He hoped his Good-father would, at least, and if he did not he hoped Brynden or Edmure would be able to see what he intended.

His contemplations were interrupted by a knock on his door, and he is quick to call whoever is there into his room. He isn't too surprised when Robert enters his room, smelling slightly of wine and a with a happy grin on his face, "Ah, Ned, glad to see you're still up!"

The Stark raises an eyebrow and looks out the window, where the sun is only just starting to descend below the horizon, "Too much light to properly sleep, your Grace. What brings you to my chambers?"

"I was hoping to ask how much longer you're going to be in the capital?" Robert asks.

"I've actually just finished a talk with Lord Tyrell," Ned tells his friend, "I plan on wedding Sansa to his eldest, Willas."

"A good match," Robert nods, and slides into the chair the fat Tyrell had vacated only a few moments ago, "It's a good thing you're doing, joining the realm like that. I've done enough to fuck it up, haven't I?"

Ned doesn't say anything as Robert pours himself a goblet of wine. Even when he doesn't say anything, the king can feel his judgement, "Yes! I know, I've fucked up this King business so badly that I'd need ten Imps and an extra Littlefinger to get us back to just owing millions to the Iron Bank."

He laughs, "If there's any consolation to all of this, it's that the chief fucking lion was happy to let go of a few million dragons so that we didn't spread everything more."

"He truly forgave the Lannister debts?" Ned asks, not having expected Lord Tywin to ever compromise on that.

"He didn't forgive it all," Robert admits, "But the Imp was able to talk him into forgiving most of it. Now we're just four million in debt, most to the Iron Bank."

"And your new Hand isn't able to get a handle on it?" Ned asks of Tyrion Lannister.

Robert downs his goblet in one gulp and then as he refills it replies, "Tyrion's been a fucking boon, I'll tell you that. Better than you would have been as hand, I dare say. He managed to get a fuck ton of gold out of Baelish."

"Petyr was short changing the crown?" Ned asks, alarmed.

"No more than any other Master of Coin," Robert shrugs, "He's just a rich man, owns nearly every brothel in the city, and most elsewhere probably."

"And he failed to pay his taxes?" Ned growls, he did not forgive anything like that from his own bannerman, and could not contemplate how Robert was not offended by the very idea that a lord would get away with short changing the realm.

Robert raises his own eyebrow at Ned, "And now I'm seeing why you'd be a terrible choice for Hand, Ned. You're a real Lord of the North, you've got no bend in you. You weren't built for southern politics."

Ned narrows his eyes, but after a minute he decides that Robert is right. It was hard, now that he was so far south, not to see the corruption and wish that he could stay and help fix the realm. But then again, he had promised his family that he would return to the North as quickly as he could, and he'd already extended his stay by at least a month.

"Let us change subjects," Ned sighs, "How are you finding your new bride?"

"Ah, Ned, the girl is everything I could have hoped for!" Robert laughs, "I miss Lyanna, and I'll always hold her in my heart, but I could be happy with this one."

Ned nods, glad that the ghost of his sister was finally leaving Robert, because he knew what her memory had done to his friend. He loved her greatly, but he had let time ease the wound of her loss, Robert had not let that happen. It was also easier when he could look to Jon as a living memory of her, something Robert hadn't been given.

"What makes this one so special? Especially that you couldn't care for Cersei when she was your wife?" Ned frowns, wondering if Robert had been happy with Cersei if any of this would have happened.

"She's a dirty whore, Ned," Robert laughs, a wide grin stretching across his face before it twitches into a frown, "And Cersei was a dirty cunt. One I can appreciate, the other needs a right smacking to make her shut the fuck up."

"And you don't think this attitude is not what destroyed your marriage and led to this current circumstance?" Ned asks.

"I don't fucking care, Ned, she was a cunt of a queen, and now she'll be a cunt that can't talk," Robert grunts, "And soon enough I'll have an actual heir that I can actually be proud of."

Ned sighs, shakes his head, and looks at his friend with a frown, "And what of her bastards?"

"Tyrion keeps trying to sell me on marrying Myrcella to my bastard Gendry, a smith apprentice."

"And what are your opinions of this?" Ned asks.

"She's a sweet child, as is Tommen," Robert tells him, "Joffrey is heading to the wall, little bastard deserves worse but he was smart enough to take the black. I'll probably wed the two, and keep Tommen around until I can think of somebody to wed him to and get him out of my hands."

"And you say you're going to have a trueborn heir soon?"

"I should, the amount I've fucked my new bride," Robert laughs, taking another long gulp of his drink

Ned sighs heavily, again remembering why he is so eager to head home to the north.


	16. Shifting Tides

**Kill the Boy 16**

"Ned? You've got word from the boy?" Robert asks, looking at his old friend from his place at the head of the Small Council. This was a momentous occasion, at most the third time he'd ever attended one of his Council's meetings.

His brothers and the majority of the more aged members were staring at him as though he possessed six heads, something that before this morning would have been more likely than the king actually seeking their counsel.

"I have, your grace," Lord Stark nods, having asked the Hand to assemble the men in the room with word from the North. Most of the Council leans forward curiously, it wasn't often that word of the Banished Prince made it to the Council chambers and they were curious about what the boy who went beyond the Wall could have found there.

Ned looks around the table and then back at Robert, "Jon has gathered near forty thousand of the Wildlings that he found. He did not gather them all under his banner, and both he and Benjen have sent ravens giving a rough estimation of sixty thousand Wildlings remaining Beyond the Wall and preparing for attack."

"Attack?" Renly asks, "Surely the Night's Watch is equipped to handle the threat of savages!"

"The Night's Watch is not what it once was," Ned admits sadly, "It stands barely a thousand strong, and of those men there are few who are more than the criminals sent North by the Southern Kingdoms."

"So the noble order is not so noble anymore?" Pyter Baelish smirks.

Ned turns to him and frowns distastefully. He didn't like Baelish, and he near hated him with what both of the Robbs he knew recently told him, but the man was still a childhood friend of his wife. He held his ire and turned his disgusted frown to the failures of the Night's Watch, "Yes, they have fallen far. Not even should the Lords of the North send a son each would they be back to an acceptable size, I intend to return to Winterfell and call my Banners so we might be prepared for this threat from the Wildlings."

"When do you intend to depart, My Lord?" Maester Pycelle asks, "To return North is a long journey by sea, and even longer by land. Are you concerned that the Wildlings might attack before you reach your keep?"

"I am not," Lord Stark Shakes his head, "I have already arranged transport, and have a ship waiting in the docks. All I await now is the arrival of Willas Tyrell and his sister Margaery."

"Why the Tyrells?" Stannis asks.

"My daughter will be meeting with the boy. The girl I am taking to the Eyre so she might learn of her future Kingdom."

"Yes, Lord Tyrell and the young Lord Arryn had a quite productive talk after the matter of the former queen was settled, didn't they?" Varys asks, his usual enigmatic smiles painted onto his face.

The former queen was not having a good day. She learnt from Littlefinger that her father was giving up on her, the bastard was letting her be sent to the Silent Sisters. She would not allow that indignity to stand!

Baelish had promised that he would be able to help her still, so long as she was willing to do as he said. She would, of course, see about having him killed as soon as she could, but until then she would play along.

As the plan stood, his men would be among the guards over her precious Joffrey and take her beloved son to safety while she too was being taken away. She, in turn, would exchange places with one of Baelish's whores for a brief time before making her way back to Casterly Rock. Once there, she would repay her father's betrayal in kind.

Perhaps she would have the Mountain tear his head from his body. She knew how to control men like the Mountain, and if all else failed she would be able to arrange for poisoning. There were many servants in the castle that she was very kind to.

It did not occur to Cersei that there were other ways to show kindness other than sex, she'd been far too jaded for far too long to understand that words were just as good. Just look at how she had Lancel take care of her whenever Jaime was off doing the bidding of the king, and that serving girl, and those guards, and that one time with the Hound.

Ah, it would be a shame to kill that ugly fuck. He knew the meaning of loyalty, but unfortunately her beautiful baby boy had ostracized the brute. Now the Hound served her wretched brother, the loathsome Imp!

Who was currently stepping into her chamber!

"Get out!" She screams at him, throwing the first thing that came to hand at him, a goblet of wine.

The Imp ducks beneath the throw, then he smirks at her, "You must work on your aim dear sister! But here I am, come to speak with you and perhaps wish you well on your journey, and you throw a goblet full of wine at me! How could you waste such a treat!"

"You have ruined me! You spiteful little monster, you've taken everything from me!" Cersei growls at him looking around her for another item to assault him with.

"Taken everything?" Tyrion snorts and dodges under a vase, "Dear sister you've ruined yourself! If you'd kept your cunt from Jaime then this would not have happened!"

"Do not dare speak his name!" Cersei growls in anger, "He is my golden lion! My savior! My knight! He is _mine!_ "

"He's nobody's now!" Tyrion retorts, "He's already on his boat and off to Essos, banished for what the two of you have done to the Kingdom!"

"What have we done to the Kingdom that Robert Fucking Baratheon hasn't already done?" Cersei demands, "At least I have raised my children!"

"Oh, yes, that's a perfect thing to say when your eldest is perhaps the most viciously idiotic little cunt I've ever had the misfortune of knowing," Tyrion snorts, and has to dodge a plate being thrown at high speed for his words.

"You know nothing! Joffrey should be king! He will be king!"

Tyrion snorts, then backs out of the room, "Not while I still hold sway in the Seven Kingdoms, sister. I look forward to seeing him garbed in black when next I visit the Wall. I will not be robbed of that sight, and Robert would not see himself robbed of his vengeance."

"What does that fat oaf have to revenge himself against?" Cersei snorts, as he opens the door to leave, "He's already found a new cunt to sheath his sword in, and soon she'll hate him as I do!"

"Oh I very much doubt that," Tyrion grumbles quietly as he closes and locks the door. Now his mind was on the new queen, "She's near as bad as him. Thank the gods I managed to find that whore!"

"Yes, thank the gods for… uh….." Robert, who'd been standing outside the door flounders at the name of the whore he and his wife had taken to their bed on a near permanent basis, "Imp, what was her name?"

"You don't recall?" Tyrion snorts, "I near had to drag you from between her legs not twenty minutes ago! You had no troubles recalling her name then!"

"I happen to have a grand memory when it comes to women," Robert retorts, "I can recall her breasts perfectly even now!"

"And yet you cannot recall that her name is Shae," Tyrion laughs a little, "I do so pity the kingdoms once she and your lovely wife begin to conspire on more than matters of the bedchamber!"

"Ha! Those whores'll probably do far more good than I ever did!" Robert laughs as well, then he straightens and settles his stomach before asking, "Now, what have you learned?"

"She has something planned, that much is clear," Tyrion tells him, frowning, "I cannot say what, but Varys said that Littlefinger met with her. It might be a good idea to see what he has planned, perhaps allow things to proceed until we can intervene and take them both as prize."

"Aye," Robert nods, "It'll be a shame to lose him, but if Baelish has plans that aren't going to be helping…"

"He is a threat," Tyrion agrees, finishing the sentiment.

Petyr Baelish, the subject of their talk, was currently sipping some wine as two of his girls were practicing on the bed behind him, "No, no, no, you can't moan like that! That is a moan that comes from actual success! Your clients will not being doing that, they will grunt, pump, and finish in but a moment."

"Are you saying that I am too skilled my lord?" The whore pleasuring the other asks.

Littlefinger smirks and stands, stepping away from his chair to move to a desk covered with orders for his men, "Oh, my dear, we both know that there is no such thing as too skilled."

The other whore, the one with three fingers inside her, turns her head to him, "How should I moan, m'lord?"

"It should be… like you are eating a piece of finely cooked steak," Baelish tells her after a moment, "It is exaggeration for the sake of your fellow diners. You are selling to your client that you are enjoying his manhood as much as the greatest meal you've ever had!"

"Oh! Like this?" The whore moans in a terribly overacted manner, eliciting a laugh from Baelish.

The Lord shakes his head, "Not quite what I meant, but I do appreciate your enthusiasm. I trust you to show the Silent Sisters what they are missing when you join their ranks."

"Of course, m'lord," The whore smiles, and turns over.

Gazing at her, Petyr can't help but smile at the girl. He had been lucky when he'd found her, and in her time at his most successful pleasure house she had gained him quite a lot of money.

After all, who didn't want to fuck a queen?

And this lost Lannister cousin was a near perfect duplicate of Cersei. She had gained quite the following, and it was a shame that he would be sending her to the Silent Sisters, but she was growing tired of the pleasures of the flesh, and of men, and wished to fill her spirit with the seven. And her mouth with cunt, if her current activities were anything to go by.

Cersei and his whore would swap places, and perhaps he would keep the Queen. Baelish smiled at the idea, and at how the King would reward him for taking matters in hand to punish the queen. A Lannister would join the Silent Sisters, but now it would be another.

A shame he could also not have the Kingslayer, but that was a matter for his agents in Essos to settle.

Jaime Lannister wasn't sure what to make of his new circumstances.

Here he was, on a ship set for Westeros with naught but his name and a trunk with his clothes in it. He'd not even been allowed his sword, which didn't actually prove a problem for long.

He stepped out of the way of a slash from the Pirate's blade and easily took it from the man. He smacked the man's arm, eliciting a pained hiss and a dropped blade. The Kingslayer deftly caught it and opened the man from waist to neck.

As his first opponent dropped and the life bled from him, Jaime turned to assess the attack on his vessel. It seemed that the Pirates, who looked to be Ironborn Reavers, were making short work of most of the crew. Jaime, after taking the arm off another reaver, tried to recall what he remembered of the Iron Born's customs.

He recalled that they were insane, believing that if they drowned they would be rewarded in the afterlife or something like that. He also recalled that they believed in some sort of "keep what you kill" policy in their culture. That meant that if he killed the captain, he could probably claim their ship as his own.

"Well, well, well, is that the Kingslayer?" A voice he'd heard once before asks.

Jaime narrows his eyes, furrows his brows, and turns to see a man he'd truly never expected to see again, Euron fucking Greyjoy. He'd only met the man once, when they'd been boys, when their fathers had been meeting to discuss rogue reavers trying to land in the Westerlands.

"Greyjoy?" He can't think of anything else to say, ask, or even think about.

"Aye, it's me," Euron nods, happily, "Tell me, Kingslayer, what are you doing out on the open sea?"

"I'm on my way to Essos," Jaime tells him, eying the One Eyed Crow's men as they started to clear the decks of any remaining sailors, "Banished."

"And the Lion of the Rock let it happen?" Euron laughs, "Perhaps he isn't as strong everyone thinks, if he lets that happen. I think I might have to move up my plans now!"

"And what plans are those?" Jaime asks, tightening his grip on his sword.

"Well it's nothing too serious," the Greyjoy laughs, "I plan on killing my brother, taking the Saltsea chair, then lands bordering our seas into a new Ironborn kingdom, one my ancestors would be proud of."

"How exactly do you think that would work?" Jaime asks, "It would be you and, what? Near twenty thousand? There will be six Kingdoms standing against you, and after that mess of a Rebellion that you lot tried, we all know how well you'll fare."

"Ha!" Euron laughs, "You think they'll be able to stand against us when they're plagued with war?"

Jaime furrows his brow, "What are you talking about?"

"I've seen it!" Euron exclaims, throwing his hands out, "I've been all over the W-"

The Crow's Eye has to dodge out of the way of Jaime's sword as the Kingslayer tries to take advantage of the splayed arms. Unfortunately the man is quick on his feet and knows how to dodge a blade.

Jaime pulls back and smacks away Euron's own sword. They clash blades a few times before they pull away from each other. The Kingslayer doesn't let the captain out of his sight, careful to keep facing the man as they start to circle each other. He leaps forward and stabs at Euron's chest, and when his sword is batted away he punches with his off hand, catching the Ironborn in the face with a haymaker.

As Euron stumbles away, Jaime smiles, ready to take advantage of the opening. He takes a single step before he has to leap to the side, on of Euron's men trying to stick him in the back. He grunts and cuts the man across the throat before he has to dodge another blade from Greyjoy.

Soon enough, it isn't just the Greyjoy attacking him, but every man who sailed with the him as well. They surrounded Jaime, and it was his skills as the best swordsman of the day that let him hold them off as well as he did. Still, by the time he had managed to get himself onto the top deck of his ship, he was suffering from some fairly nasty cuts and couldn't quite see a way out of his predicament.

"Give up, Kingslayer!" Euron laughs from below, standing on the center of the deck, "You're to die today, all that matters now is how quickly you let yourself die! You've got enough cuts that we could leave you here and let you bleed to death on the deck of a ghost ship, or we can take you now and kill you quickly!"

"And why aren't you?" Jaime asks, noting that the Crow's men had pulled back and took the time to tear off a strip of his shirt and tie it tightly around a nasty cut on his off hand.

"Because you've already slain a fair number of my men!" Euron calls back, "I always knew you were good, but I'll admit I didn't see near a third of my crew meeting its end at your blade."

"All anyone ever remembers me for is killing Aerys," Jaime notes, tearing another strip and binding another wound. There were more cuts, but he'd covered the two worst offenders, "But they forget that I've killed far more than just him."

"That you have, Lannister, that you have," the Crow's Eye nods, "So what will it be? Are you going to die in a blaze of glory, or with a whimper on a ghost ship?"

"I'd rather take you in a fair duel," Jaime tells him, then laughs, "But I know you aren't that stupid."

"Well I thank you for the compliment, Kingslayer!" Euron, too, chuckles.

Neither man held more than a conceptual hatred for the other. Jaime hated Euron for the burning of Lannisport and Euron hated Jaime for helping end the Greyjoy Rebellion, or perhaps for helping end Robert's Rebellion quicker. As was said, they'd only ever met before as boys, and they'd got on well enough in their youthful interactions. Plus, Euron hadn't been a dick to Tyrion, so he had about twenty points of goodwill by Jaime's standard.

"So what will it be?" The Greyjoy prompts, finally.

Jaime doesn't think too hard on it, "I think I'd prefer the Ghost Ship, thank you. I may actually survive if I do!"

Euron nods, and whistles. His men immediately pull back and return to their own ship, taking with them chests and crates full of goods that they'd looted from the ship. After the last was off the ship, Euron calls up to Jaime, "I wish you well in the Doom, Lannister, for that is where you're to end up."

"Valyria?" Jaime mutters, then asks, "How do you know this?"

"Because that's where I've pointed your ship!" Euron laughs, then jumps back onto his ship, "Farewell, Kingslayer! Mayhaps you'll be the first Lannister to actually return from the Doom, but I doubt it."

The ship vanishes into the fog that had surrounded Jaime's ship, and the last man aboard gives a groan and says the only word that comes to mind, "Fuck."

Then he thinks, "Tyrion is going to be green with envy when he learns of this!"


	17. Claws Out

**Kill the Boy 17**

Jon sat in his solar, thinking of matters that required his attention. In his last time around, he'd not paid more attention to the happenings south of the Wall more than to know of all the tragedies that had befallen his blood during this time.

Now he was a Lord of the North, a bannerman to Winterfell, and a key player in the game of thrones as Sansa had once called it. He may hate that last note, but he was the bastard of two very important people to the recent history of Westeros. If somebody wanted to overthrow the Baratheon Dynasty they'd be inclined to stick him on the throne regardless of his feelings on the matter.

He didn't want to be anywhere near that throne, seeing as how it had claimed nearly everyone he cared about at one point or another. Even Sansa had fallen to its sway, as much as she'd tried to hide it after they reunited. She had resented him for being crowned King in the North ahead of her, especially because it was she who had won them Winterfell, not him. All he'd done was fail Rickon and get thousands of his own men slaughtered.

Thankfully he didn't have to do that again, and instead just had to run a keep without pissing off the people who had chosen to settle here. The southerners that had come north because of his Targaryen blood were finding that they were not as well built for the North as he. It seemed that their blood froze in their veins and all they could do of it was complain to him.

They wanted him to move south, but he didn't need to. He was a man of the North, raised in Winterfell and he even journeyed to beyond the Wall. There was ice in his veins, and he would not move south and attract more attention than his circumstances already did.

Whitewoods had stabilized, it seemed. The population had finished growing at about twenty-five thousand, not including the Free Folk he'd brought south with him. So now, with a population of around sixty-five thousand people, Jon had to make sure that they didn't all die when winter came. He knew that it would come around five years from this point, so he had to prepare for that time.

He needed his people to build trade, farming, and a marketable skill that they could specialize in and interest the Southerners. Thankfully, the Free Folk had something like that already, their clothes making. Their garb may never have looked like much, but according to Ser Gered it was perhaps the most comfortable winter garb he ever dressed in.

If Gered Lannister, and a few of the other knights that had moved into the area, were willing to send word to their families about the garment's value, then maybe they'd have a chance at collecting some gold.

His musings are interrupted by the door opening and Ygritte slipping into the chamber, closing the door with a sigh before turning to him, "Your sister's a frightful lass."

"Arya can't be that bad," Jon snorts, leaning back, "I thought you were getting along famously."

"Oh I like the small one well enough, it's the elder that terrifies me," Ygritte shudders and saunters over to him and sits on his desk, "Kept trying to talk to me about something called 'fashion.' I don't know what that is, but I'm damn terrified of it now."

Jon laughs again, smiling at his wife for a second, then taking pity on her and explaining, "Those fancy dresses you keep laughing at when we get a visit from one of the Ladies? That's fashion."

"By the Old Gods," Ygritte shudders, "Never have I been so glad to talk about my imminent demise before!"

"Your what?" Jon blinks.

"The younger one managed to turn the talk over to what I knew about your little jaunt through history," Ygritte tells him

"I hardly think dying counts as a jaunt," Jon points out

"Aye," Ygritte agrees, leaning close, "But don't you think all that you've done deserves a more joyful word?"

"I do," Jon agrees, and thoughts move from matters of state to matters of marriage for the rest of the night.

….. Elsewhere …..

Arya blinked up at the giant, and it blinked down at her in turn.

She hadn't intended to meet the massive being, but her wanderings had taken her into the courtyard just as he and some of the more human sized Free Folk were picking up a supplies. The Giant looked down at her and gave her the kind of grin that she'd expect from maybe Hodor, the simpleton stablehand back in Winterfell.

"Oi," She hears from one of the Wildlings, and she turns to see a large man with head of orange hair stepping up next to the giant, "Wun, what're you doing?"

"Grrrl," The giant grunts, and a massive finger swings down to point at Arya, drawing the man's attention to her.

The red haired man raises an eyebrow at her, then looks back up at the giant named Wun, then down at her, "Aye, there's a girl there, what of it?"

"Snnnoooow," Wun groans out.

"Snow?" The man blinks, then looks back at Arya with narrowed eyes.

Arya, who'd growl tired of not actually being addressed directly, rolls her eyes and notes, "Yes, I've been told I look like Jon, what of it?"

"So you look like Jon Snow, eh?" The red head nods, "I can see it, that'd make you the younger Stark, right? He wouldn't shut the fuck about you lot the whole trek to the Wall."

"Really?" Arya asks, an involuntary smile breaking across her lips.

"Aye, said you were likely to cut the balls off any man who tried to touch you," is the reply.

"Why would cut somebody's balls off for touching me?" Arya asks, but before the man can tell her she finishes her thought, "Jory always told me to go for the eyes, and that seems much easier!"

"Ha!" the man barks a laugh, then smiles down at her, "That's what I'd want t'hear from one o' me own daughters!"

"I'm glad somebody agrees with me," Arya frowns, "When mother heard Jory telling me that she took his ear off!"

The man shakes his head, "You kneelers and your fancy womenfolk confuse me, girl, but I'm glad to see there's at least one that I don't have to snort at ev'ry time I'm takin' a piss."

Arya, rather than try to figure out what the man means by that, choses to take it as the compliment it was probably meant as and extends a hand, "I'm Arya Stark."

"Then I'm Tormund," The now named man smiles and takes her hand, "They call me Giantsbane, but I think you might be too young for that particular story!"

Arya smiles, and when they finish their handshake, she says her goodbyes to both Tormund and the giant. As she makes her way back to her rooms, she has to wonder if there is any girl that has a stranger life than her.

….. Elsewhere …..

Daenerys Targaryen wondered if anyone had ever experienced something so wondrously strange as her. Yes, everyone she'd ever loved was now dead, but at the same time there was nothing more spectacular than the three tiny dragons sitting sitting in front of her right now.

She'd mourn Drogo and her unborn son, but she would be able to move on. Viserys, she wouldn't mourn him if she were paid all the gold in Pentos. She would recover from the loss of her family, she knew many that did over the course of years.

Plus, her brother had shown her what would happen if you were unwilling to let go of the past. So right now, all she had to worry about were her dragons and the few Dothraki that had chosen to stay with her.

As the black dragon squeaks at her adorably, Doreah smiles and sets a piece of meat in front of him before telling Dany, "Khaleesi, we are going to have to leave this shore soon if we are to survive. Both horses and men need fresh water, and we do not have much."

Dany nods, "You are right, and we must find a way to get to safety and fresh water without running afoul of another Khal."

"You should speak with Ser Jorah," Doreah suggests, "He has wandered all of Essos and will most likely know where we can go to avoid death."

Daenerys nods and stands, intending to do just that, but her efforts to find the knight are preempted by his own arrival. He bows his head respectfully, then tells her, "Khaleesi, we must decide where we are to go."

Nodding, the Targaryen looks out into the sea and asks, "Do we have any valuables we might trade for passage to Westeros?"

"Westeros, your grace?" Jorah asks, blinking.

"My nephew still lives," Dany notes, "And if he is to be king of the Seven Kingdoms someday he must have the Dragons to match the blood of Old Valyria that flows through his veins."

….. Elsewhere …..

Jaime Lannister was really wishing he had some of the famous Targaryen blood, seeing as he was currently trying to sail his way to safety through the mists of the Doom. All around his ship, the ghosts of Valyria clamored for purchase, trying to claw their way into his soul.

As he tried to steer the ship around the many small outcroppings that he could see, Jaime had to wonder if he would die out here like uncle Gerion. The man had gone missing years ago on a quest to find the Lannister family sword, Brightroar. Now it looked like Jaime would be sharing his fate, whatever it was that befell him.

Unfortunately for the Lannister, his musings on the fate of his uncle were interrupted by a sudden and violent jerk. Thrown from the wheel, Jaime can only watch in resigned horror as his ship digs itself into a very unnatural outcropping.

An outcropping that looked like a snarling lion.

After the shaking had stopped and as the sinking starts, Jaime leaps onto the snarling lion and pulls himself onto the prow of another ship, this one distinctly more Lannister than the last. Looking around, he doesn't see anyone that might be aboard, living or dead, and no evidence that anyone had been on the ship in years.

It was the deadly quiet of the ship that let him know that there was probably something out to kill him just waiting for him to lower his guard. Probably some poor bastard infected with Grayscale or something like that. And knowing his luck it'd be uncle Gerion, still somehow recognizable under the scales.

That'd be like something out of Tyrion's books.

And that was why he was very glad that he was not fighting a man covered in Grayscale that looked like his uncle. Instead, as he took his first steps across the deck, he is confronted by a half-rotten corpse that looked like his own father. It probably said something about his relationship with the man that he was so willing to bear his sword to him. Thankfully the need to keep his head kept him from getting too introspective.

The half-corpse swung a blade that shone in the mist at him, and as he brought his blade up to block it Jaime realized his mistake. The Valyrian steel blade sliced through the Kingslayer's own shit sword like butter, and carves a line through his tunic.

Jaime leaps back, startled at the pain across his chest, but also very glad that he was standing at a distance enough that he wasn't opened from collar to cock. With only half a blade in his hands, Jaime knew that he was in some deep shit.

The dead man moves forward for another attack, slicing with his superior blade at Jaime, who leaps back to avoid the strike. After the blade has passed him, he leaps forward and stabs the corpse through the right eye.

There is only a second where he thinks victory is his before the corpse starts to move again. It pulls back, letting the halfsword squelch out of its head. The left eye and massive hole where the right had been glares balefully at the Kingslayer.

"I guess the magic of this place was still strong when you tried to plunder it," Jaime notes, finally realizing that the corpse probably belongs to King Tommen, who first sailed to the Doom to try and plunder the ruins of Valyria. His fleet had been lost, along with the Lannister Valyrian sword Brightroar. Uncle Gerion had tried to journey into the Doom to find it, and here Jaime was stumbling across it by unlucky chance. Tyrion would no doubt spout something about magic or destiny, though in jest.

Jaime didn't feel very much like jesting as he dodged out of the way of another attack. He was supposed to be in Essos right now, and not the part that held ghosts from a dead empire of dragons. He was supposed to be in Braavos, selling his sword as a guardsman or something so that he could make coin.

Instead he was diving under another overhead strike from his dead ancestor who'd been reanimated by some magics that were still at play in Valyria. If he were honest, fighting King Tommen was kind of like fighting Thoros of Myr on a bender. The attacks were general, if powerful. There was no finesse to any of the motions, and if he played this right he could disarm the creature and take the blade.

He timed his moves carefully, and made sure that he had the measure of the corpse before he tried to act. There was a horizontal slice, followed by a vertical, followed by the approximation of a diagonal. He let it proceed, and like the marks in a candle, the pattern repeated over and over until he took his chance.

Brightroar slammed into the wood of the deck, and Jaime shoulder checks the corpse before it can pull the blade up in a diagonal slash. He expects it to go flying, he doesn't expect it to leave its right arm behind when it does.

The limb falls limp, dropping the blade to the deck as it hits the deck with a meaty thump. Jaime is quick to sweep up the ancient blade of House Lannister before the corpse can pull itself to its feet. He doesn't even give it a chance to get to more than its single elbow before he swings his blade down.

The head of King Tommen rolls away from the corpse. After a moment of stillness, Jaime finally relaxes, thinking his ordeal to be over. Unfortunately, the Lannister ship beneath him takes that moment to jerk forward, as though released from a tether.

Jaime is thrown from his feet, landing with a painful thump on the deck. He sighs after a second, lowers his head until the back of it hits wood, and notes, "It's going to be like this the whole time, isn't it?"

Nothing answers him verbally, but a quick glance to the left at the head rolling towards him tells him that it probably will be, "Gods, I hope Cersei is having an easier time of things than I am."

….. Elsewhere …..

Cersei was indeed having an easier time of it than her favored brother, mostly because she didn't have to fight to the death with anyone.

Unfortunately that was about all that she was having an easier time of since being sent to the Silent Sisters. Well, she hadn't been the one sent to the Sisters, that had been the other girl that looked remarkably like her. Instead she was laying in one of the most comfortable chairs she'd ever sat in and glaring at Petyr Baelish.

Littlefinger grins at her, his mouth a thin line without any teeth showing. He'd just finished describing her new… situation… to her.

"Let me see if I have your clever plan correct," Cersei grinds her teeth, "As you promised, you have my son, rather than the Night's Watch. But you will not be bringing him to me."

"Correct," Baelish nods.

The former Queen takes a sip of the wine he'd given her before he started explaining what he was going to do to her, and she presses on, "Instead, you are using him as a hostage to ensure my… cooperation."

"Right again," The Whoremonger's grin spreads, and he tells her, "Go on, finish, you know you want to."

"In exchange for not killing my precious Joffrey," Cersei closes her eyes, takes a breath, and another gulp of wine, "You want me to whore myself to these… peasants?"

"Very good, your grace," Littlefinger smiles, "I'm so glad you were paying attention! So, are you going to accept, or does precious, sweet Joffrey need to meet the headsman's axe?"

She could hear the sarcasm in his tome, hear the condescension, and so wished she could claw his eyes out. But she had to protect her little golden lion. She finishes her goblet, then tries to stand to give her acceptance; but something is wrong almost as soon as she rises.

Falling into her chair as the world starts to spin around her, she hears Baelish tell her, "Well, actually, it doesn't really matter what you decide, I've receieve quite a lot of gold from some very interested people to see you… elsewhere."

She can not ask who before darkness takes her.

Littlefinger sighs, rubbing his eyes, "I truly hope Lord Tywin appreciates all I do for him."


	18. Loss of Life

**Kill the Boy 18**

 _AN: For the people who keep leaving the very long reviews asking me to bring back a bunch of dead people, please stop, it's getting a bit irritating._

 **\- Elsewhere -**

Cersei returned to the waking world slowly. First she felt as though she were waking from a long and dreamless sleep, then she tensed as she recalled her last memories before darkness took her, and finally she opened her eyes warily.

She is both very glad and utterly terrified to see her father sitting in a chair, glaring at her.

"Father," She managed to utter without a yawn, pulling herself to a sitting position.

"Cersei, you stupid girl," He doesn't hesitate to start his chastisement, "You have destroyed the Lannister legacy. All that I have worked for, everything I've pushed for, everything I've sacrificed, and now thanks to you and Jaime, the Lannisters are the laughing stock of the Seven Kingdoms!"

The former queen flinches back, but she is not one to be cowed so easily, "Your legacy was a lie! A reputation built on petty cruelty and the machinations of an old man!"

Tywin surges to his feet, "Petty Cruelty? Everything I've done has been for the betterment of House Lannister!"

"And everything you've done has led us to ruin," Cersei laughs, standing, "Do you know why I fucked Jaime?"

The Warden of the West flinches back as though struck at the admission. He'd hoped that the Imp and Lord Stark were lying, or just wrong.

"I fucked Jaime," Cersei savors the words, licking her lips in excitement at how uncomfortable it made her father, "Because he was all I had! You cared not for us; what we did, who we spent our time with, how closely we resemble the Targaryens."

It takes Tywin a moment to collect himself, and he turns a hateful gaze to her, he doesn't say anything yet, but it is clear he is building something up.

Laughing, Cersei tells him, "Why do you think Jaime was so eager to join the Kingsguard? You'd told us for all our lives that I would marry Rhaegar, and we could not bear to part! I love him, love the feel of him, and I want - "

The blow comes unexpectedly, and Cersei falls back onto the bed. She brings a hand up to her cheek, the sudden pain far too real for her, and she looks up at her father.

"Congratulations," Tywin tells her, "Because of your love for your brother, you'll never see him, or your disgusting children again."

"You will not talk ab-" Cersei surges to her feet, but Tywin strikes her down again.

"I've already killed one of your spawn," Tywin growls, "Displease me again, and I will arrange for Littlefinger to end the other two."

"What!" Cersei, upon hearing that, is back on her feet. This time though, she doesn't give her father the chance to strike her, instead wrapping her hands around his throat and bearing him to the ground.

It takes the Lord a few seconds to realize what has happened, and when he does it is too late. The breath has been taken from him in the tackle, and as one of her hands stays around his neck, her other searches his form for his dagger.

He would not be killed by his disgrace of a daughter! He would not be cowed by the likes of her!

But even as Tywin reached for his dagger himself, he knew it was too late. She already had it from him. He could see the murder in her eyes as the blade rose in her free hand even as he brought one of his own to block the blow. He roars in pain as the blade slices through his wrist, and when he makes the mistake of flinching back, the blade plunges into his chest.

It was a bitter realization to know that he had failed the Lannisters so spectacularly as to be killed by one of his own children.

 **\- Elsewhere -**

Willas Tyrell and Eddard Stark sat across from each other, sharing a noontime meal without the interference of Lord Mace. The Warden of the North takes a sip from his drink and asks, "Is it true that you are the power of Highgarden?"

"Nearly," Willas admits, "You've met my father, and my mother is near as bad. Myself and my grandmother have taken as much control of the Reach as we can from them, but my father is still the Warden of the South, in the end."

Ned nods, the many rumors circling the capitol about the Tyrells. Mace in particular had been giving credence to these rumors for most of his stay, thanks to his maddening lack of intelligence. He runs a hand through his beard and tells the young Tyrell, "I intend to leave the city in the morning, and if you are interesting in meeting my daughter you will be accompanying me. Can Lady Olenna handle the Reach without you?"

Willas smirks, "My grandmother could rule the reach even were she to be struck deaf and blind. My father is thoroughly cowed by her, at least when in her presence."

The young Lord then tilts his head, "Actually, she was rather impressed with him when she received his raven. He's managed to arrange two very powerful matches with yourself and Lord Robert."

"Yes, I do hope your sister is able to help young Robin through his grief," Ned notes, thinking of the brief interaction he'd seen between Margaery Tyrell and Lysa's son.

The girl was near ten years the child's senior, and it was clear that she would be acting more as a mother than a romantic partner. Ned couldn't help but wonder how that relationship would developed. He didn't like thinking ill of the dead, but the obsession that Lysa had held for her son was somewhat disturbing. An obsessive, clogging love that smothered the boy and kept him from advancing into adolescence.

"I think she will be exactly what he needs," Willas nods, "Margaery is known for her generosity in Highgarden and beyond, and she loves children."

"That is good," Ned nods, "Too often have matches like the one your father arranged fallen to… difficulty."

"My sister is not Cersei Lannister," Willas assures the man, "She enjoys her position, and she would never compromise her chances of becoming a great lady by doing something so foolish as having an affair with another man."

"Forgive me, Lord Willas, but your family's ambition seems to know no bounds," Ned notes, "Your father is making overtures to Lord Tyrion about staying in the city for some reason, your sister is to wed the Warden of the East, and your brother is a known companion to Lord Renly."

"You forget that I am to meet with your own daughter," Willas points out blithely.

"I did not, for I was the one who arranged that," Ned disagrees, then waves a hand, "I meant no offense, merely observed the reach of the Tyrells."

"We are a big family," Willas tells him, "And not many can match our rank, so we must spread to the other Kingdoms. My father would have gladly sent Loras to Sunspear to wed Arianne Martell if it were not for his devotion to Lord Renly."

Ned raises an eyebrow, but he supposes that the desires of a third son can be met, rather than having to plan things for the first. Though Mace had apparently done very little to arrange a coupling with Lord Willas before Ned's suggestion. It probably had something to do with the boy and his grandmother's ability to rule Highgarden from behind the large Warden of the South.

The pair eat in silence, letting conversation fade away as they enjoy the meal and think on things like the future and the state of the Kingdoms.

 **\- Elsewhere -**

Myrcella poured over some of the notes that Varys's little birds had given her. It was brilliant for the eunuch to use children with a skill at writing to pass along information. Nobody noticed children!

She was a former princess and one of the Golden Betrayals, as the common folk had taken to calling her and her brothers, and yet people still paid near no attention to her comings and goings. It was amazing, and slightly alarming to realize how large a blind spot people had.

The notes in her hand proved that she had more information than she'd ever know what to do with when she succeeded Varys as Mistress of Whispers, as he seemed to want her to.

She already knew that Robert's new Queen was pregnant, that they'd had three whores into their chambers to celebrate, that those whores were reporting to Baelish and Lady Olenna Tyrell, and that the news would be spread by the end of the day.

She knew that her elder brother, Joffrey, had been killed by Baelish's men on the orders of her grandfather. She'd have to send flowers in thanks for that.

She knew that Margaery Tyrell already had Robert Arryn wrapped around her fingers, though she was fairly certain that whoever spoke kindly to that boy could say the same.

She knew Lord Stark would be leaving the city with Margaery's brother before the sun was up on the morrow.

She knew that Ser Jorah Mormont was going to be making good use of his royal pardon in a few weeks if Varys's gold managed to buy Daenerys Targaryen a ship in Qarth.

 **\- Elsewhere -**

"Who owes you money?" Daenerys asks, staring at the sack of gold and letter a messenger was holding out to Ser Jorah.

Jorah takes and opens the letter. When he reads the contents he can't help but blink, "It is from Varys, King Robert's Master of Whispers, and your father's before him."

Xaro Xhoan Daxos, their host for their stay in Qarth, raises an eyebrow, "truly a master of secrets, if he has received word of your arrival within our fair city so quickly!"

It was true, they'd barely been in Qarth a fortnight before this sack of gold and letter had arrived. Jorah took the it from the messenger, tying it to his belt before turning his attention more fully to the letter, explaining to Dany, "Varys was my contact, the one I learnt of your nephew's existence from."

"And what are the contents of the letter?" Xaro Xhoan asks, but raises a hand in surrender as the Westerosi Knight glares at him, "I will take my leave. A good day to you, Khaleesi, Ser Mormont."

As he leaves, Jorah turns his attention to Dany, "I do not like that man."

"You like none in Qarth, Ser Jorah," Doreah notes from where she plays with Drogon, the baby black dragon. Irri giggles at that, but doesn't add any more to the conversation.

Dany smiles and shakes her head at her companions' antics, then turns to Jorah, "What is in the letter?"

"It is an invitation," Jorah tells her, "For you to return to the Seven Kingdoms. It seems that King Robert has declared a ceasefire on the hostilities between your family and his."

"That is good to know," Dany nods, "I would very much dislike having to dodge assassins on my journey to meet my last living relative."

"I have been issued a royal pardon," Jorah tells her, then sighs, "For services rendered."

"Services rend- what did you do, Ser Jorah?" Dany asks, eyes narrowing.

Jorah looks down at her, weary resignation on his face as he tells her, "I was not just receiving information from Lord Varys. In exchange I reported to him on the movements of your brother."

"But not of me?" Dany asks, narrowed eyes glinting dangerously.

"Not directly, Khaleesi," Jorah shakes his head, carefully keeping to only half lies, "Your brother was the only threat to the Baratheon line of succession, and that changed long before you were with child."

"The troubles with the Lions caused quite a stir, then?" Dany asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Enough that the crimes of your family have been forgiven," Jorah tells her, then holds out the letter, "In Robert Baratheon's own words."

" _To the Dragon Whore,"_ Dany reads aloud, then closes her eyes in anger. She takes a breath, then opens them and reads on, _Congradulations, I don't hate your family near as much as I did last year. That means I won't kill you if you come back to Westeros, but stay the fuck out of King's Landing or I might just bash your head in on principle. The Targaryens will never rule the Seven Kingdoms again, so if you do come back, go live in the North with Jon Snow. He's your nephew, if my spy hasn't told you already."_

Dany lowers the letter again, "I truly do not like this man."

"You didn't like him before, Khaleesi," Doreah notes from her position.

"Yes," Dany agrees, "But now I know the kind of many he truly is, and I find him distasteful in a very new manner."

"All men are pigs, Khaleesi," Doreah steps up behind her and gives her a hug, "It is only a matter of how much they enjoy the mud that determines how we stand them."

Jorah frowns at the display of affection the former slave is showing Daenerys. He wishes, on an emotional level, that it could be him showing that affection. On a cultural level, he was mildly disgusted with the sexual nature of her grasp. He'd been in Essos long enough to let it pass without comment, though.

Dany leans her head back onto Doreah's shoulder for a moment before returning her attention to the letter and reading on, _"I hear that you killed your brother, so half the gold Varys is sending to Ser Jorah is yours as payment. He was wanted for the death of Lysa Arryn. Congratulations, you're a bounty hunter, bitch."_

"Hm, this does seem an unpleasant man," Doreah laughs, reading over Dany's shoulder, "I can imagine him, a fat whoremonger that takes pleasure in the suffering of others."

"Robert Baratheon held a special hatred for the Targaryens," Jorah tells the women, almost flinching at the glare Dany sends him, but presses on, "Rhaegar stole his bride to be, and from the stories Robert loved Lyanna Stark fiercely. That Jon Snow is her and Rhaegar's son is probably the only reason he's stopped his crusade against your family."

Doreah smiles lightly, "A doomed love affair, a war for a kingdom, and a hidden heir to the throne. This is like one of the great stories of old. I look forward to being a part of it!"

"And what part would you play?" Dany asks, her smirk caressing Doreah's cheek, "The clever servant?"

"Oh, I have a far more invested role in mind," Doreah tells her, brushing a hand along her stomach, "I very much look forward to being the secret and loyal lover to the great advisor to the king."

"Oh? And who will this advisor be?" Dany asks coyly.

Jorah, who'd taken as much as he could, turns, "I will hire a ship, Khaleesi."

When he leaves, Dany turns in Doreah's arms and smiles into her lover's lips as she loops her arms around her neck, "I am glad that you seek to remain by my side."

"Always, Khaleesi," Doreah tells her.

There is a soft sound as Irri exits the chamber as well, not wanting to be in the same room as the pair enjoyed each other's company, again.

 **\- Elsewhere -**

Jon was ready when word came down from the Wall, Uncle Benjen was missing.

The raven arrived while he and his family were having their breakfast. Sam brought it to him for the maester, "Jon, raven from the Wall."

He takes it, opens it, and sighs when he reads the contents, "Damn."

"What?" Bran asks, taking a bite of his bacon and blinking up at his cousin.

They hadn't spent much time together, him and Bran, something that would have to be corrected. But this wasn't the time, and he tells his cousins, "Uncle Benjen has gone missing while out Ranging."

"Shit, you think Rattleshirt and his horde got him?" Ygritte asks, narrowing his eyes.

"Rattleshirt?" Robb asks, leaning back.

"The Lord of Bones," Jon tells him, "One of the Wildlings that refused to come south with me. A violent man."

He leans back, rubbing his eyes, "I'd hoped this was averted, damnit."

"Uncle Benjen went missing before?" Arya asks.

Everyone's breakfast had been forgotten with the news, and Jon nods, "Aye, but that was months back. He'd have been missing near half a year if I hadn't had my 'Jaunt,' as you call it."

"Do you know what happened to him?" Robb asks.

"No, we never found him," Jon shakes his head sadly, "And I doubt we'll find him this time, either."

"Why do you say that?" Bran asks, now really worried.

"It's more than Wildlings beyond the Wall, Bran," Jon tells him, "The Walkers are coming, we've got a few years until Winter, but they'll be coming with it and we'll have to fight."

"Aye, dangerous fuckers, they are," Ygritte nods, "Ain't ever seen one, but Mance has horror stories, and he's only caught a glimpse."

"How many are there?" Robb asks, thinking of future strategies.

"In number of Walkers, I've seen no more than three," Jon tells him, "But I know there are more."

"But that's not where the danger is," Ygritte tells them, "It's the dead that're the most trouble, the most deadly."

Jon nods, "Thousands of them, every man, woman, and child that's fallen beyond the wall can be called up. Newly dead or a thousand year old corpse, it matters not, the cold keeps them and they'll rise when called."

"How do you fight them, then?" Sansa asks, eyes wide in fear.

"Dragonglass and Valyrian Steel, Lady Sansa," Sam tells her, "Jon's been having me collect legends from across the Seven Kingdoms and beyond, they all agree with his experience. We need the fires of magic, like what is in dragonglass or valyrian weapons."

"That's why you needed Ice," Robb realizes, having thought that it was just the cutting force of the blade that Jon would need when facing a White Walker.

The Banished Prince nods, "Aye, and we'll need more blades of its make before the Walkers come if we hope to surprise."

They would be ready, he would make certain. He just hoped that the Seven Kingdoms didn't plunge themselves into another bloody civil war while he was trying to do it.


	19. Transitions in Power

**Kill the Boy 19**

 **\- Casterly Rock -**

Fate certainly seemed to conspire against Cersei Lannister, former Queen to Robert the Whoremonger. She had been married off to a man she learned to despise, mothered three children that were stolen from her, and murdered her own father for the loss of one of them.

But then things had taken a turn, because as chance would have it, Lancel Lannister was Tywin's squire. Sweet, stupid, relatively good looking Lancel. Cersei had managed to entrap him only a few moments after she'd slain her father, the cooling blood still on her blouse. Lancel was eager to get rid of it, and help her out of the rest of her clothes.

He'd been even more willing to help her once she'd been divested of all clothing. Eager would be understating the fact. So when she bade him get Gregor Clegane, he did it without any hesitation.

The Mountain was well pleased to see her naked as well, and proved an even better lover once they'd established ground rules. Lancel's caved in skull was still spilling blood and brains as she rode him.

Once he was firmly in her camp, she gave him some very simple orders, and by nightfall she had complete control of Casterly Rock. There were more than a few dead Lannisters, maids, servants, and guards, but the Mountain had cleared the Rock of all who might have tried to oppose Cersei's rule.

And then Cersei sent him to Lannisport. He was enthusiastic, thinking that he would be enjoying the company of the Lannisters there, but she had other plans in mind. She knew who was to blame for the tragedies that had befallen her, Jamie, and sweet Joffrey. The Starks would pay, and the Mountain would exact the price.

She sent him with enough gold to book passage north to the Banished Prince's settlement, whatever it was called. He would ride there, and start carving his way through the Stark family tree. Cersei had a special hatred for bastards, especially the ones that weren't Lannisters by blood. So Jon Snow would die horribly while Joy Hill, her uncle Gerion's own bastard girl, was forced to eat her aunt's cunt. She needed to replace Lancel, after all.

Oh yes, it was good to be the Lady of the Rock, even if the Rock was full of corpses.

 **\- King's Landing -**

"Petyr Baelish," Robert glares down at the man, who looked far worse for wear than the King, "Do you know why you're here?"

Littlefinger had been grabbed by the Hound in the middle of the night, taken to the Black Cells, and left to waste there for two days while Robert and Tyrion went over what Mycella and Varys had brought them.

"Your Grace," Baelish takes on his customary smirk, "I'm afraid you have me at a loss."

Robert nods, accepting this. They hadn't told him why he was being arrested, after all. But that didn't excuse his actions, and he leaned back into the Iron Throne and growls, "Treason, Lord Baelish, is why you are here."

"Treason?" Baelish does a good job of looking shocked, even insulted, he even says as much, "I take great insult to such a baseless accusation, your Grace! I would never betray the crown!"

"Unfortunately, Lord Baelish, you did," Tyrion cuts in, now taking Robert's place as the spokesman for the crown, "It has been unearthed that you have conspired against the will of King Robert."

"How have I done that, Imp?" Baelish mocks.

Tyrion raises an eyebrow, wondering if the former Master of Coin was hoping to get a rise out of him, "You have made an exchange, Lord Baelish. One of your whores took the place of my sister and went to the Silent Sisters. At the same time, you've sent Cersei back to my Lord Father."

"Have I truly?" Baelish's eyes widen in surprise, "I would never dare to do something so foolish!"

"Unfortunately for you, Lord Baelish, we have evidence," Tyrion waves a hand and Varys steps forward, passing a bundle of letters to the dwarf, "these are just the letters you received from my father. We've also received testimony from six men who all say that you paid them to kill my bastard nephew, Joffrey Hill, on his journey to the Wall."

"I did no such thing!" Petyr waves a hand in front of himself.

Tyrion smiles bitterly, "Unfortunately, Lord Baelish, the evidence we have collected is enough to see you paying for your crimes."

Littlefinger's lips warp into a disgusted snarl, "And so what is to be my fate, Imp?"

"The Wall or the block," Robert tells him, standing, "Petyr Baelish, I give you this one chance, take the Black and get the fuck out of my sight. Either that or I have Payne take your fucking head off."

Ser Ilyn Payne doesn't give any indication to which decision he would prefer, but his presence does tell Littlefinger that he choses now. He sighs, "Very well, I will take the Black, Your Grace."

"Good," Robert nods, "You can accompany Joffrey on his way there."

Baelish's eyes widen, and realizes that the men he'd paid must have already been bought. They weren't tortured into giving up the information, Varys or the Imp had gotten to them first and secured their services to make sure that the boy made it to that frozen hellhole. Well at least that meant that there were still three Golden Betrayals with which to play the game, and he had plenty of agents and stashed gold in Mole Town, just in case something like this were to happen.

 **\- Elsewhere -**

The three Golden Betrayals were sitting in the small dining chamber that Myrcella and Tommen had been sharing for the last few months. Across from them sat Joffrey, who looked very upset. It wasn't a surprise, considering that this was perhaps the first time he'd been out of his cell since they'd reached the capital.

"When I'd read Littlefinger had arranged your death, I was glad," Myrcella tells her brother honestly.

"Were you really?" It is mildly disturbing how proud her elder brother looked at the admission.

"I was," She nods, then takes a breath, "I am also glad that you are not dead, because as terrible a monster you are, you are my brother."

Joffrey frowns at her in disappointment, "Oh come now, sister, don't start lying now, we've already had one breakthrough."

"I'm glad, because it means that you will be suffering the tender mercies of the Night's Watch," She finished, giving her brother her best glare.

Joffrey rolls his eyes, "You try far too hard. Top pretending to be a warrior, we both know you aren't."

"You're right," She agrees, then smirks, "But neither are you."

Joffrey growls, and smacks a hand onto the table, "You don't take that tone with me!"

"She can take any tone she likes, ya shit," Myrcella's guard tells her with a snort. The man, a sellsword of moderate skill that had been one of the men paid to kill the former Prince, had instead taken the gold and gone to the Hand with the information. He had been given another pile of gold and offered employment acting as guard for the two Golden Betrayals that weren't horrid monsters.

"There's no need for foul language, Bronn," Myrcella chides her guard, "Joffrey is just upset that he's going to spend the rest of his days in the cold and the dark, knowing that he'll never be king."

"We'll see about that, sweet sister," Joffrey growls, "They say that there have been many Kings beyond the Wall."

He stands, and his escorts open the door for him. Tommen looks to Myrcella, "He isn't really going to be king, is he?"

Myrcella looks down at her younger sibling, and the boy looks so scared of the idea of Joffrey being the King she slips from her chair and kneels in front of his own to tell him, "No, Tommen, he's never coming back, he's never going to be King, you don't have to worry about him anymore."

Tommen smiles and hugs her, glad that their brother is going far away, probably to die far beyond civilization like so many Black Brothers before him.

 **\- Beyond the Wall -**

Benjen Stark knew that he should be dead, and that he probably was. But at the same time he wasn't one of the wights that Jon had fought. He wasn't a shambling corpse, but he wasn't a White Walker, either. He gazes at the childlike creature standing above him and asks in a hoarse voice, "What am I?"

"You are a Walker," She tells him, "Not white, for you were made with different intent."

"I'm dead."

"You are dead," the Child agrees, "But you are not gone."

"Why?"

"Because you can still serve the living."

"I should be dead."

"You are dead."

"You know what I mean!"

"No. Your final chapter is not yet written."

"And who will write it?"

"You, and the Bloodraven."

Benjen blinks, slowly opening and closing his eyes as the name sinks into his memories, "But he was lost."

"He found himself," The Child tells him, then steps back so he can rise, "Come, I will show you the way."

Benjen rises, and he feels bones sliding back into place, "What happened?"

"You fell," the Child tells him, "From the top, and I took you."

"Why me?" He asks.

"Magic is in your blood," She tells him, "Needed in order to bring you back whole."

"In my veins?"

"Blood of the First Men, the Builder, and the ancient pact with the Old Gods," She tells him, then turns back, "Magic."

Benjen nods slowly, then as he takes his first steps into the lands of the dead he has to ask, "How far are we traveling?"

"To the end of the world."

 **\- The Edge of Valyria -**

It certainly felt like Jaime was standing at the end of the world. His latest ship had run aground along an unknown coast, and he could do nothing but stare into the endless field of gras. His situation was far from good, especially without anything around him.

He'd run out of food and freshwater only hours before he hit land, and it probably wasn't a good idea to try and head west, seeing as that was back towards Valyria. On the other hand, he knew that the ancient civilization had access to freshwater.

As much a he hated his lessons, he did know that men needed fresh water to survive. It looked like he didn't have much choice on the matter, really. He was fucked either way, but he'd rather be fucked and hydrated, if he were being honest with himself.

He'd just turned towards the mists of the Doom when the sound of hoofbeats reached his ears. He turned his attention towards the source and balked at the sight of thousands of men riding towards him over the crest of a hill.

The riders, clearly a Dothraki horde of some kind, circle him quickly. Knowing as little as he does of their culture, he does know that it would do him no credit to show fear. They were savages, but they were the kind of savage that led the Mountain Men of the Vale or the Ironborn. There was a code to their barbarism, and if he could work it to his advantage, he might just make it out alive.

One of the riders stops in front of Jaime and demands something. The Kingslayer frowns and tells the man, "I can't understand you... sorry."

"The great Khal Mogo asks who you are," another rider asks, a heavily accented voice speaking in the common tongue.

"I am Jaime Lannister," He tells the man.

The man turns to his Khal and they briefly exchanged words before the man turns back, "The great Khal demands to know how you have come Ghiscar?"

"I came by sea," Jaime waves a hand towards his beached ship, "I was beset by Pirates on my way to Braavos. They killed the crew of the ship I was on and turned my sails towards the Doom. I ran afoul of the magics in Valyria but managed to exit the mists."

The man's eyes widen in horrific wonder, and he turns to the Khal, talking to him quickly. There is a hush that falls when the man finishes. Khal Mogo eyes Jaime for a long moment, then he speaks again and the man translates, "It takes a great man walk the poisoned water, and an even greater one to walk the Doom. That you have done both earns the respect of the great Khal. He offers you a horse and points you west. There you will find Astapor, and beyond that you will find Yunkai and then Meereen."

"I thank the great Khal for his generosity," Jaime tells the translator.

The man laughs, "there is no word for thanks in Dothrak, Jaime Lannister, only the hope of future battle and honor."

"Then extend my wish that one day we may cross blades on equal ground," Jaime tries.

The translator turns to his Khal, but before he can, Mogo speaks for himself, "I hope to face you in battle one day, Kingslayer, for even the Dothraki know of your Legend."

Jaime nods respectfully, confused as to why the Khal hadn't spoken for himself for most of their conversation. He supposed Tyrion or his father might have understood it at once, but it was a little too political for his taste.

He watches as the Dothraki depart, thousands of men riding off over the hills, leaving him with a grounded ship and a single horse. He smirks and notes to the horse, "Good thing they didn't look in the ship, can't well be a Lannister without my gold."

 **\- The Narrow Sea -**

"My Lords!" The call rouses Eddard Stark and Willas Tyrell and brings them to the deck of their ship to see what the captain wants.

They see almost immediately upon rising to the deck, because a ship flying very dangerous colors is nearing them.

A Targaryen ship.

"I thought the Targaryens were all across the Narrow Sea?" Willas asks, not having had the same access to information that Ned had.

"The brother is dead," he tells the younger man, "The sister still lives, and it seems she's taken Robert up on his offer."

"The King offered her clemency?" Willas asks.

"Aye," Ned nods, frowning, "and Jorah Mormont."

"The Lord of Bear Island?" Willas asks, "The one that married my aunt?"

"The one that sold men into slavery, yes," Ned grinds his teeth, "No doubt they're sailing for White Harbor so they can make their way to Whitewoods."

"Your Nephew's settlement?" Willas asks.

"Indeed," Ned nods, "The only family she has left."

Willas nods, then sighs, "Well, I'm sorry we left my sister in the Vale, it seems that the North is where we will find the political intrigue of the next few years."

"More than you know, my Lord," Ned sighs.

First Jon, then the royal bastards, then the mess at the capital, then the White Walkers, then the Wildlings, now Targaryens. What was next, actually fucking dragons?


	20. Forward Unto Darkness

**Kill the Boy 20**

 **\- Whitewoods -**

Jon and Ygritte stand at the edge of Whitewoods, watching as the Starks ride south towards Winterfell. Robb needed to be at the castle to return lordship of the North to their father, and the other three couldn't stay without him. As much as they wished to do so, their mother would never allow it.

"It's always a shame to say g'bye to famly," Ygritte notes, "Never know if it's permnant."

"I hope not," Jon sighs turning away from the retreating riders and to the village, "I've said goodbyes that have lasted forever before, I'd rather not give another for many years."

Ygritte nods, following alongside him, giving Ghost a scratch on the head as he takes his place at her side. The pair remain as silent as the albino wolf, easy in each other's company. The redhead was rather glad of that, that their relationship had evolved to a point of companionable silence. She'd been worried that as soon as she moved past the Wall, all her fire'd flow out and she wouldn't be able to find her wits with the Bastard Lord.

But it hadn't happened, she was still who she was, and Jon would never try to change that. He'd told her, a few days after they'd crossed the wall, that he'd tried to change the Wildlings when he brought they over the first go round. They'd been bitter about it and he'd ended up getting most of them killed at the Battle for Winterfell.

Thinking on that, though, she has to ask, "What are your plans for folk like that Ramsey bastard?"

Jon stops, blinks a few times, "He's de…. Oh."

"You thought he was dead?" Ygritte snorts, rolling her eyes in exasperation.

"Sansa had him eaten by his own dogs," Jon defends himself, "that leaves a lasting thought."

"Really? The elder sister? That one?"

"Aye, she was hard when we came together again," Jon shakes his head, "Just as broken as I am, but broken in different ways."

"A woman that could make decisions, then?"

"She was always better with people," Jon tells her, "Always better at hiding what she felt. She was able to forgive the Umbers after they gave Ramsey our brother, because we needed them to shield us from the Walkers. I'd have killed them all."

"That's a might bloodthirsty of you?" Ygritte raises an eyebrow. Jon wasn't one to recend his sense of mercy.

He doesn't answer her, though, merely shakes his head and starts moving again. She rolls her eyes at his stoic silence and tells him, "I'm takin' the wolf and goin' hunting."

Jon turns back to her, smiles, and nods, "I trust you'll catch the cooks something large."

"Large as I can carry, at least," Ygritte smiles and turns towards the woods that give the snow capped village half its name.

 **\- White Harbor -**

The Targaryen had dragons.

It had caused quite a stir when both Ned Stark and Daenerys Targaryen's ships had made port at almost the exact same time. The Lord of Winterfell had landed just an hour before hers, and so he decided to act as escort for the young girl. He also intended to threaten Jorah Mormont if the chance presented itself, but that was secondary.

He was, consequently, the first to see the dragons. There were three; two on either one of the Targaryen girl's shoulders, and the third tangled in the hair of a girl by her side. Ned nearly lost control of his emotions at the sight of them. Beside him, Willas certainly did.

The young man blinked stupidly at the magical creatures, his mind revolting against the impossible and reducing his usually large intellect to unintelligent mutters, "Bu...whu..ho...I don…"

"Be calm, Willas," Ned tells him, then he steps forward, "You are Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen?"

The girl nods, "I am. You are Lord Eddard of House Stark?"

"I am," Ned nods then he moves his gaze from the girl to first the green dragon on her left shoulder, then the black dragon on her right, and finally to the white one in the other girl's hair before returning to match her gaze, "You are here to join our Nephew, John Snow, on his holdings?"

"I am," Dany nods, then she swallows and tells him, "I do not have much family left, I would like to meet the last of it."

"I was sorry to hear of your brother," Ned tells her, thinking of the loss of his own brother and sister.

"I wasn't," Dany shakes her head, the dragons on her shoulders hissing at the jiggling of their perch, "My brother was not a pleasant man. I grieve for the loss of my husband and my son."

Ned nods, he'd heard from Varys while he was in the capital of the madness that dwelt in Viserys Targaryen's mind, "My sympathies regardless. Lady Daenerys Targaryen, do you rescind any right you hold for the Iron Throne?"

Dany swallows, this was it. It wasn't in the letter the Usurper had sent to her, but she should have expected something like this. She'd known since she set sail that she'd be giving up her birthright to be with her family, "I do. The Targaryen's lost their right to rule when they could not defend the realm from even their own blood."

"Then I offer my entourage as escort to take you at least as far as Winterfell," Ned tells her.

Dany nods, "I thank you, Lord Stark, for your generosity."

Ned, too, nods.

And then the spell of silence that had been holding everyone at bay broke and Wylis Manderly, there in place of his father Wyman, exclaims, "those are dragons!"

Ned sighs, knowing that there would be no way to stop the loyalists from marching to Whitewoods now.

 **\- Astapor -**

Jaime Lannister is very glad he didn't have to march to the city of Astapor, and even more glad that he only had to make the trip once. He'd been able to sell the treasures of the Lannister ship on nothing but a promise of its existence for a reasonable amount of gold. At his estimation, he had enough gold to buy around three hundred Unsullied and still have enough left over to live comfortably for a year before he'd have to start worrying.

Thankfully, it was easy to shit gold when you were a Lannister. He may not have his brother's intellect, or his sister's ruthlessness, but he could play the odds. He knew when a venture was lost, and he was usually just too stubborn to give up.

It wasn't the best strategy, but it was still better than just wasting his time doing nothing. The way he saw it, if he bought a decent army he could make his way selling their services as a private force in exchange for gold, food, or anything else.

But then he actually went to the slavers to buy his army.

While not the worst experience of his life by any stretch of the imagination, seeing a man get his nipple cut off did not make him enthusiastic about purchasing. It was like the Unsullied had no souls. They were just dark, empty beings built only to kill. If he could figure out how, he'd probably have tried to destroy them, the city, and probably the surrounding countryside so that nobody could destroy men like they did here.

He settled for buying the translator and a second horse so that he wouldn't insult the masters, then got the hell out of Astapor.

"What's your name?" He asks the dark skinned girl.

"Missandei," She tells him, head bent as she rode her horse behind him.

"Fantastic," He notes with his usual dull snark, "Well, I'm Ser Jaime Lannister, I expect you to call me that."

"Yes, Ser Jaime," the girl nods, her eyes still down.

"Good, never call me Kingslayer," He tells her, "I'm not overly fond of the title."

"Yes, Ser Jaime," she repeats.

"I certainly hope you have more personality than the Unsullied, girl," He tells her, "I bought you, not them."

"Yes, Ser Jaime," She casts her eyes briefly up, not realizing that he's looking back at her, and he catches a hint of mischief in her eyes.

"Good, you've got a bit of personality," He nods, then he turns his eyes back to the road, "now, I'm from Westeros, Missandei, that means i'm not familiar with Essos. At all. I know it has mercenary bands, several free cities, and that Braavos is one of them. That's our current destination, by the way."

Missandei looks up in surprise, "Slavery is illegal in Braavos."

"I know," Jaime nods, pulling the key to the slave's collar from a pouch tied to his belt, "You aren't a slave. You are my servant, a vassal."

Missandei takes the key cautiously and asks, "And how is that different?"

"Well not by much," Jaime shrugs, "but at least you'll get paid a dragon a year."

He was being generous too, most of the servants back in King's Landing barely made half that. Though that was probably half a dragon was a massive amount of gold thanks to how much Robert Baratheon had paupered the Iron throne.

There is a click and the sliding of metal as Missandei pulls the collar off of her neck, "That is more than more free people make."

"Well congratulations, we're both heading towards high class," Jaime snarks, then smirks, "though from very different directions."

 **\- The Eyre -**

Margaery Tyrell was new to the Eyre, but that didn't stop her from quickly taking control of the castle. She'd been trained by the Queen of Thorns and new how to work people, she was queen of the castle in less than a month.

She got on with the Castilian, letting the man run the castle and only giving him soft advice. It was a strategy her Grandmother had advised her of, and something she had practiced herself in her first years as Lady Tyrell. It would be a few years before the man trusted every word she said, and by that time she would have the authority of young Robin to back her efforts up.

She was already a woman flowered, so all she needed to do was wait until the young boy's fascination with her breasts came from more than just the fact that his mother succled him right up until the day she died.

Margaery did not have fond thoughts of the late Lysa Arryn. The woman had destroyed her son, made it impossible for him to do anything for himself. It was great for her political ambitions, but she did crave somebody with a little more backbone. At least so that when the day finally came for them to be married and consummate their relationship, she could actually be satisfied.

Unfortunately, she was most likely going to have to find a bedmate for that. There were many girls in the Vale who'd no doubt jump at the chance to be closer to the future Lady Paramount, but Margaery knew from experience that the ladies of court were not very subtle. She'd had to dismiss her first bedmate, a girl who'd shared her company since they were both mere toddlers, because her talking had spread all kinds of uncouth rumors.

They were all true, but one does not kiss and tell.

 **\- The Twins -**

Walder Frey glared at his newest guest. The man, a big fucker that could be nobody else but the Mountain that rides, glares right back. The old Frey spits on the ground in front of him, confident that the crossbowmen up in the balcony would be able to pepper the giant with enough bolts to bring him down before he could do any harm, "You tell Tywin Lannister that he'll need to do better than threaten me if he wants use of my fucking bridge!"

"I'm not here because of Lord Tywin," the Mountain growls, "I'm here for myself. Let me cross."

"For yourself?" Walder Frey snorts, "Fucking hell, tell me you aren't one of those daft cunts off to swear allegiance to the bastard!"

"Doubt it," Black Walder chuckles from in front of the high table to Late Walder's left, "I get the feeling this big fucker wants to finish the set."

"Oh, is that true?" Walder raises an eyebrow at the giant man.

"If it were, you think I'd be stupid enough to tell you?" Gregor Clegane growls.

Walder smiles evilly, "Well isn't that interesting?"

The Mountain tilts his head, "Be careful, Frey, I got orders that say nobody can know I'm on the move."

"Oh, really?" Walder looks around, "My word, it looks like you've failed quite spectacularly then, doesn't it? You're a giant cunt, Clegane, you weren't going to be hiding anything."

"Keep talking to me like that, and I'll have to take your head," The Mountain growls.

"I don't think you're going to have the chance," Walder chuckles and waves a hand for the archers to fire.

In another life, they would have fired and killed somebody very different from the Mountain that Rides. In this life, nothing happens.

Walder's eyes zip up to the balcony, and he sees the men that had disembarked from the Mountain's boat with the giant man. They were holding bloodied daggers and wore evil grins.

"You shouldn't have done that, Frey," The Mountain smiles, matching the expression on his men's faces as he pulls his helm from his belt and his sword from his back. Walder doesn't even manage to pull himself to his feet before the Mountain's blade stabs through him.

It is only the start of the slaughter at the Twins, and while the Freys wouldn't be mourned it was a clear indication of the kind of bloodshed that was soon to come as Cersei Lannister began to spread her influence.


	21. Welcome Mats

**Kill the Boy 21**

 **\- King's Landing -**

There is the sound of feet hitting stone outside the Small Council chamber, and when Tyrion turns his attention away from the other men attending to see what the commotion is about, he is surprised to see his niece rushing into the room followed by her bodyguard.

"Myrcella, Bronn, would you care to explain the cause for your interruption?" he asks. He turns his eyes to Varys, knowing the Eunuch had been training her to be his eventual successor. The bald man shrugs subtly, letting him know the entrance wasn't arranged.

Bronn is the first to answer, mostly because he isn't leaning over breathing heavily like the former princess, "The little lady learned something from baldy's little birds that she felt needed to be shared immediately."

"Something important enough to barge through the doors to the Small Council chambers without a bye your leave?" Stannis asks, frostily. He did not like sellswords, or the golden betrayals.

Myrcella takes a final gulp of air before coming up and glaring at the man she once thought was her uncle, "It does when it involves war, my Lord."

"War?" Tyrion sits up, eyes widening, "What war?"

"War in the Riverlands," Myrcella replies, then steps up to the table and sets a folded piece of parchment onto the table, "This is the report I received."

The hand picks up the letter and begins to read, and while he is doing so Varys suggests, "Since there is only one letter, perhaps you would be willing to fill us in, my dear?"

Myrcella nods, "It seems that a party of bandits arrived at the Twins a fortnight ago and paid a large sum of gold to the Frey at the gates not to search him. According to to Olyver Frey, who survived the ordeal, the men let gold flow like water and the elder Freys were more than eager to take it and indulge the men so long as their leader went and met Lord Walder."

"I take it he was a distraction?" Renly asks.

"Very much so," She nods, "The men took to the balcony with crossbows and when their leader killed Lord Frey, they began to kill everyone they could."

Stannis leans back in his chair and rubs his eyes, "Only the Freys would be brought down by their own greed in such a dishonorable fashion."

"I don't know about that," Tyrion notes, looking up from the report, "I can think of a few houses that have died just as poorly. Though not quite so quickly."

"I think, gentlemen, we are getting off track," Varys notes.

"That we are," Renly leans forward, "You said war in the Riverlands, how is this leading to war in the riverlands? Sure, the Freys are dying, but they're fucking Freys, who cares?"

"The Queen, for one," Comes a reply from the doorway, and when the Small Council turns they are gifted with the sight of their new Frey queen, "So my father is dead, is he?"

"I'm sorry to say that he is, your grace," Pycelle mutters, speaking for the first time since Myrcella had entered the chamber.

The Frey, Tyta, strode into the chamber and sat in the King's empty chair without preamble, then repeats Renly's question, "How has that old cunt's death led to war in the Riverlands?"

Myrcella blinks at the insult slung at the man by his own daughter, but explains, "The survivors of your House have spread through the Riverlands, settling in the keeps of their non-Frey relatives. Each claims to have the right to take lordship of the Twins."

"And the Riverlords are each eager to lay claim on my family's keep in some way," the Queen sighs, "And knowing the more mad members of the family, they've promised the moon and back to claim their support."

Myrcella nods quietly, still not sure how to react to the new queen. They hadn't been in the same chamber for more than a moment before this. Myrcella thought it would be better if she avoided her former father and his family so she and Tommen could escape his ire. It seemed that fate conspired against that idea, though, because Queen Tyta was waving for her to sit next to her, "Come, if you're to replace Lord Varys when he leaves our service, I want you knowing how the Kingdom is run. Seven Hells, I need to learn as well! All I've done since marriage is fuck your fa- Robert- and that whore Tyrion bought for us."

"I aim to please, your grace," Tyrion rolls his eyes, then looks to Pycelle, "Maester, who has the right to the Twins, of the Freys?"

Pycella takes a few seconds to remember the answer, and after drumming his fingers against the table a few times he tells the Hand, "Lord Stevron, if I have the right of it. I'll need to consult the latest copy of lineages, but so long as he wasn't slain in the fighting, the Twins are his."

"Let's hope my brother is well, then," Tyta sighs, "His eldest is a moron, like most of the rest of my family. Lord Tyrion, we need to deal with this quickly."

Tyrion nods, leans back in his chair, and folds his fingers together, "The issue isn't so much who has the rights to the Twins, the matter is more who will convince their host fasted to lay claim to them. If the wrong Lords get it into their heads that they can be the masters of the Twins, there will be no avoiding war."

"How do we stop it from reaching that point, then?" Renly asks.

"Hang the lot of them," Stannis suggests, "If they rise to claim the Twins, they are inciting war, attempting to overthrow the rightful Lord of the Twins. They will be assisting in Kinslaying."

"Aye, but that hasn't happened yet, so we can't hang them," Renly rolls his eyes, "Honestly brother, you have to wait for a crime to be committed before you act, that's how laws are written!"

Stannis growls, hating the fact that he can't act with the finality that these events deserved. His brother looks to Tyrion and scoffs. The dwarf smirks and shakes his head quietly, then turns to the Queen ,"I think the best course of action would be to send a raven to Lord Hoster or his son, if they tackle this issue quickly enough it should be dealt with."

"Good," The Queen nods, then asks, "Has your Lord father replied to our ravens demanding the return of your sister?"

"He has not," Tyrion shakes his head, "Which I find worrying."

"Yes, Lord Tywin is always quick to send a reply," Pycelle agrees, "It's been more than a fortnight, he is never so late to respond."

"There aren't any armies massing in the Westerlands, are there?" Renly asks, cautiously of Varys, "The last time Lord Tywin took this long to respond, sacking this city _was_ his response."

The Master of Whispers shakes his head, "The Westerlands are quiet, exceptionally so, in fact."

"Exceptionally so?" The queen raises an eyebrow.

"Usually there is some whisper from my little birds on the tensions within the keeps of the realm," Varys explains, "I have yet to see anything too pressing, and my little birds in Casterly Rock have given no cause for alarm."

"I do hope they're still your little birds, Varys," Tyrion notes, frowning, then looks to Pycelle, "I am going to write another letter, be ready to send it to my lord father when I am finished."

Pycelle nods, but Varys adopts a curious expression on his face.

The rest of the meeting isn't so interesting, but all the while the spider worries about his web.

 **\- Casterly Rock -**

Varys was right to worry, but his little birds were very compromised.

After hearing of the death of her son, Cersei had gone mad. She'd gone so mad that those that survived her culling were of the opinion that she'd just been waiting for an excuse. She was madder than any Targaryen, in their opinion; at least the Targaryens were exclusive about their incest.

Cersei - in her efforts to regain the love she and Jaime had, to regain the son that was lost - found near every Lannister she could to bed. After the deed, the traumatized Lannister would slink away and hope he didn't lose his head to one of the mad woman's new guards. The Mountain's men had left a lasting impression, and Casterly Rock was filled with their number.

Eager murderers and rapists were given free rein of a keep designed to be impregnable. This meant that nobody came in, and nobody went out without Cersei's say so. No ravens left without her approval either. So when the little birds of the Rock tried to make their reports, they were quickly captured and the lucky ones were killed outright, before terrible things were done to their bodie.

By the time all of Varys' little birds were claimed, there were only six, and each was happy to do whatever the former queen demanded in exchange for not being given to the tender mercies of monsters. Locked in a single chamber, they would construct reports about the stability of Casterly Rock.

While the lies were being spread, Cersei was sending out her own letters, these to the various lords of the Westerlands. She sent invitations in the Maester's hand and her father's words, asking for sons and daughters to marry into the Lannister family so that the Westerlands could become truly connected.

She also made sure that she mentioned that "Lord Tywin" was looking for a grandchild that could take the title of lord of Casterly Rock when he died. It was well known in the West that Tywin would never contemplate giving Tyrion Casterly Rock.

She may have been as mad as the worst Targaryens, but Cersei had played the game for more than half her life. It was a slow process, and so long as she controlled the flow of information to and from the Rock, she would have control over the situation.

If everything failed and she was found out, she could flee with her men and some whore into the mines below the Keep, into the port to the ship she had waiting, and set sail away. It wouldn't take more than an hour to be away from the whore would be there to entertain the men, rather than her. She wasn't eager to get anything but a Lannister baby inside her. Joffrey would want that.

She'd only taken the Mountain because she needed his loyalty, and she was sure that when the time came she'd be arranging his death as easily as she arranged Lancel's. Gregor was a good tool so long as he was pointed as something to fuck or fight, and both let to the termination of the target of his affections. Cersei Lannister would not be another of his victims.

 **\- The Neck -**

The latest of Gregor Clegane's victims falls to the ground in two halves. The Mountain and his men had made good time after they left the Twins. They'd even been going well through the Neck for a while, and then they'd been spotted.

It wasn't as though they were trying to be stealthy, but they had orders not to be seen and they hadn't killed anyone in a week. The end result was Gregor cleaving a young boy that looked around ten in half while his own men had a bit of fun with the boy's mother.

They knew not to kill the bitch, that would be his pleasure when he took a turn. He wiped the blood from his sword as he turned to regard his men, and looks about to say something when it happens.

Arrows fly from all directions, and his men are suddenly very dead. Arrows pepper him as well, but the Mountain that rides doesn't do so without his armor. It'd be a cold day in hell if he were to be claimed by some cowardly fuck in a swamp. He should have realized the Crannogmen would be watching, but nobody really believed the stories about the swamp assassins of the North.

Rather than do the stupid thing and stand and fight, Gregor takes off. He knows he's only a few miles from the end of the swamp, and it'll be easier to fight these cunts in the open where they can't hide. Arrows shatter against his armor over and over again, and he's sure if he hadn't needed to get his armor reinforced several times over the years, there would be more than a few arrows sticking out of him.

As it was, when he finally sloshed his way out of the swamp, he was still the proud owner of an arrow in his ass. With an enraged growl, when he was out of arrow range, he pulls his from his behind and glares at the swamp behind him.

This trip was supposed to be filled with fun and murder, now it was also filled with arrows.

 **\- Winterfell -**

The trip had been relatively easy. With Ned acting as her escort, none of the Northern Lords were eager to act aggressively towards the Targaryen girl. So for the most part she was left with her people to enjoy their company.

There were only two points of contention on the usually calm journey. The first was obviously the dragons. Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal were the talk of the North, and Ned was sure that word would soon be reaching Robert about their existence.

As it was, the fire breathers were eager to fly around in the unfamiliar territory, but at the same time there were more than a few uneasy northmen faced with Dragons for the first time in centuries. First instinct was to shoot at them, but when faced with Ned Stark's steady glare, most would rather let themselves be eaten.

The second, and most significant, piece of trouble that the entourage ran into, was Jorah Mormont. The North never forgets, it was said, and Jorah had dishonored himself and his entire House when he'd sold men into Slavery. The Old Gods didn't keep many rules, but their general policy of live-and-let-live went against everything that slavery represented. As a result, his presence resulted in far more drawn blades than the dragons did.

Thankfully, when they finally reached Winterfell, word had spread far enough that his family was ready for the sight of both the dragons ad Jorah. They were lined up, just as they'd done for the King so many months ago, and even Arya was looking clean.

Ned suspected his wife had dragged her there and made sure she stayed with the promise of seeing dragons. As he and Daenerys rode into the keep, Robb steps forward, holds out Ice, and says, "Lord Stark, Winterfell is yours."

Ned gives a slight smirk as he looks at his son, takes the ancient blade, and nods, "Thank you, Lord Stark."

Robb grins and the two embrace. Ned then goes through the rest of his children before making his way to Cat. He sees apprehension in her eyes, and knows that the struggle she's been having with herself for months is still ongoing. She doesn't let that stop her from embracing her husband, though, "Welcome home, Ned."

"It's good to be back," He tells her, honestly. Then he leans back and lets go of her, "Cat, I present to you Lady Daenerys Targaryen and Lord Willas Tyrell."

Daenerys slides easily from her horse as Willas takes his time, his leg giving him some trouble. The Targaryen steps forward and bows her head, "My lady, I thank you for allowing me into your home."

"You are… most welcome, Lady Daenerys," Catelyn tells her, straightening, "You are family."

Dany smiles at that, and Ned knows his wife has just won the girl over. Before he can say more, or let Willas introduce himself, Arya decides to skip to the important subjects, "Where are the dragons?"

The Starks all make various expressions of exasperation at her bluntness, but Dany smiles, "They're sleeping in their basket right now, you can say hello once they've woken. They're irritable if they don't get their full naps, especially in this cold."

"I would hardly call it cold, my lady," Robb notes.

"Perhaps not for you, my lord," She agrees, turning her eyes to him, "But you were not raised in the heat of Essos, where the sun scorches the ground. You are accustomed to the heat and layers of cloth you must wear."

"What did you wear before you traveled to Westeros?" Sansa asks.

Dany chuckles, "I could explain, but I will save it until after Lord Willas has introduced himself."

The Stark children all start, and look to their parents for direction. Ned wears his usual expression of cool collection, while their mother smiles in amusement. Willas takes this time to steps forward, his cane clacking against the ground and attracting their attention back to him.

He smiles, "I must agree with Lady Daenerys, the cold here is something I am far from used to. While not nearly as thin as the Essosi garb, I am used to wearing shirts of far thinner material."

Seeing that they'd already destroyed the sense of propriety usually reserved for greeting guests, Ned waves for a server to bring over bread and salt so that he could welcome the girl and boy into his home properly.


	22. Hunted

**Kill the Boy 22**

"Well, well, well, what have we here?"

It's a subtle question, nearly whispered. There was a cold sadism in the question, like the one asking was just waiting for the person who heard it to answer before replying with something terrible.

Gregor knew that tone of voice, he employed several cutthroats that used it. He was more a hack and slash kind of man, himself, but you had to respect a professional monster. Opening his eyes, he peers up at a young man with a mop of black hair on his head and pale blue eyes. He also notes the three large dogs standing around, long lines of drool traveling from their muzzles into the snow.

"What we have, my love," A girl steps up behind the boy, and hands him a bow, "Is a mountain of a man."

The boy smiles, the grin cleaving his face near in half with its mad insistence on being the only thing there, "A mountain, eh? They say the Starks have a Mountain, but they also say the Lannisters do to. Which are you?"

"Fuck you, boy," Gregor grunts, and starts to pull himself up.

"Ah ah ah!" Gregor looks back up and sees two arrows pointing at him, on from the boy and the other from the girl. The boy speaks again, "We're going to play a game, you and I. But first, I do so want answers to my questions."

Gregor eyes the arrows, then the boy, then the girl, then the dogs. He chuckles, "I've played this game before, boy, you won't win."

"I don't know, I've never lost before," the boy shrugs, then points to the left, "And your armor isn't going to be very effective with it sitting over there."

Gregor looks, and indeed his armor his off to one side. He furrows his brow at the sight of it, trying to figure out when he took it off. It still wouldn't be a problem, really, but it was confusing. Actually, considering how heavy it was, it would actually improve his chances without them so long as he grabbed his helm on his retreat.

The boy sees his confusion and chuckles. He loosens his draw and tucks his bow away for a second as he pulls a dart from his belt, "Many things can be said about the Crannogmen, especially that their poisons are potent. If you'd been a normal sized fellow, no doubt you'd have been dead."

The girl gives her own giggle, "Instead you slept through us taking your armor off. Must say, you've got quite a few tools I'd have had fun testing out."

The Mountain raises an eyebrow at the girl, and a dark grin spreads across his face. He doesn't say anything to her, instead turning to the boy, "So, are we using standard rules?"

"There are standard rules?" the boy looks surprised, but pleased.

"Half of the hour," Gregor tells him, "Then the hunt begins."

"Only half?" the boy blinks, "And they always tell me 'Ramsey, you monster!' I always give a full hour to try and flee."

Their eyes lock, and eventually the newly named Ramsey steps back, followed by the girl, "We're going to use my rules, Mountain. You have an hour, use it well!"

After they depart, Gregor finally takes the time to climb to his feet. His head whooshes, and he can feel a headache approaching. It won't be what kills him though. Nor will this boy.

His first action is to step over to his armor. It wouldn't be smart to try and put all of it on, but he could see what he'd be able to slip on in the extra half hour he had that wouldn't compromise his mobility. He finds all of his armor, but none of his weapons. At least the boy isn't a complete moron, but he was still stupid enough to leave the Mountain enough metal to create an effective shield.

By the time Gregor has put on all he needs, his lower legs are in their greaves, his fists in his gauntlets, his helm on his head, and the back of his breastplate tied to his back so he wouldn't get shot in the back again. The front of his breastplate is hefted by its straps as a mock shield.

The Mountain wished he still had his mount to ride, but one can't get everything they really wished. With that in mind, he sets off through unfamiliar territory, making sur to leave a very obvious trail for his hunters to follow. On his way, he picks up a suitably sized log to fight with.

Near an hour later, he hears the barking and smiles, time to spring the trap. The first dog is quick to arrive, and sees him waiting for it instead of fleeing. The canine proves itself smart, holding back from attacking right away.

The second mutt isn't so smart, and leaps from the undergrowth at the giant man. Moving with speed unhindered by armor, Gregor smashes the log he picked up on the trail into the canine. There is a snap, and the top half of the branch goes flying into the bushes with the majority of the dog's brains.

The first hound, seeing the fate to befall its comrade, starts to growl and back away from the big man. Gregor smiles evilly behind his helm and waits, sure that the next beast would eagerly show itself in a moment. He isn't disappointed, though he is surprised when it isn't the last hound showing itself. Instead he catches movement to his right and brings up the breastplate to smack the dog, and instead catches an arrow.

"Shit," He hears the girl pout, and he smiles. This would be fun.

With his new target identified, Gregor charges through the brush towards to girl, and she gives an undignified squawk of fright as she dives out of the way. Turning abruptly, the Mountain creates a new dent in his breastplate when he slams it into the first hound, which had taken off after him. He smiles down at the bloody smear that was the dog before stepping on the girl's bow.

His eyes turn to her as the weapon snaps in half, and she looks at him uncertainly. He doesn't remove his helm, but he does pull open his pants, "You know what I want, girl."

"Well I don't," comes the voice of Ramsey, "Why don't you turn around and show me."

Gregor growls, and slouches to pull up his pants. He feels the ding of an arrow bouncing off his helm, redirected by his change in position, and turns angrily to the boy, "Alright, you little bastard, I ain't got time for this. How do you want to die?"

"Me? Die?" Ramsey laughs, then his amusement is gone as he notches a new arrow, "Afraid not, that's on your menu, today. You called me a bastard."

"Oh, don't like that, do you?" Gregor laughs, "What's a bastard doing with a pretty wench and war hounds, eh?"

"Do not call me a bastard," Ramsey draws his arrow back, speaking slowly and carefully as he aims at the Mountain's head.

It's at this point that the final hound attacks.

The quick dodge that Gregor has to make to avoid the animal also throws off Ramsey's aim, and the arrow flies through the skies over the girl's head. She leaps at Gregor's back, but the massive man introduces the back of his hand to the side of her head.

As she crumples to the ground, he catches the hound's snarling muzzle with his gauntlet. As the feral beast bites into the metal, Gregor swings it and smacks the beast against the boy. Both go tumbling, the boy in one direction and the dog in another. Gregor takes great pleasure in stomping on its head, then he turns his eyes to the unconscious bastard and girl.

Plans begin to form in the man's mind.

 **\- Winterfell -**

Arya sat next to her sister, watching the Targaryen girl. Daenerys wasn't like anyone Arya had ever met, with a grace about her that matched her mother and Sansa, but also a strength that reminded her of her father, Robb, or Jon.

She didn't take shit, if the pained expression on Theon's face was anything to go by. Arya hadn't been close enough to hear what was said between them, but it was clear that the girl had shot down the family ward with a few well chosen words.

Thankfully, Theon didn't look pained enough to cause trouble. He just did what he usually did when he lost an argument and went into Wintertown. Arya knew he was visiting the brothel, and she knew to keep that she knew under wraps. Mother would throw a fit.

The Targaryen girl, and her companion Doreah, were very eager to make themselves well liked in the Keep. After all, Winterfell was the nearest major city to Whitewoods and the Starks were Jon's family. Arya couldn't figure out why Doreah was so eager to make a first impression, but Dany clearly wanted to get to know her new extended relations.

Which was why the wolf girl had the chance to watch her, they were in a sewing circle. She was also very surprised to see that while Doreah was stitching a design into her cloth that could match any of Sansa's, Dany was even worse than Arya was.

This brought a smirk to the Stark's face, glad to see that not everything about her was perfect. But it also brought sympathy as well. So instead of being a wretch about her newly elevated skill, like Sansa would no doubt claim she was, she slipped over to the Targaryen to offer some help.

She was also going to ask questions, like, "How did you get your dragons?"

Every eye moves to her, and she winces, she'd meant to be more subtle than that. Daenerys smiles at her, but before she can reply Septa Mordane steps in, "Lady Stark! One does not simply jump up and ask probing questions!"

Arya gives the Septa a dirty look, which is returned with a cool glare. It's neither of them that speaks though, and instead it is Doreah that asks, "How does one find answers, then?"

"Excuse me?" Mordane asks, looking at the Lysene woman, confused.

"If she is not allowed to simply ask what plagues her mind, how is she to ever satisfy her curiosity?"

The Septa opens her mouth, then closes it, trying to formulate a good response that doesn't sound disrespectful. Thankfully, she is saved the trouble by a chuckle. Eyes turn from the Septa to Dany, who covers her mouth with her hand.

Seeing all eyes on her, she lowers her hand, "I'm sorry, it's just that nobody has actually ever asked me how I hatched them."

"Really?" Arya asks, tilting her head, "Seems like the first thing anyone would ask."

"I think most people try to be subtle, Lady Arya," Mordane notes.

"Well I don't think they ever got the story then," Arya retorts, turning from her to Dany, "Did they?"

"They did not," Dany agrees. She smiles at the younger girl and tell her, "I set them on my husband's pyre with a witch that killed my unborn son."

"Oh," Arya bows her head, "I'm sorry."

"There's no need," Dany tells her, "I will miss Drogo, but we did not love each other for more than a month before he was slain sickness. In return for his loss, and a son that never saw the world, I now have three strong children who will never need to know fear."

"Dragons are impressive," Arya agrees, then smiles, "But I think Nymeria is still the best."

Dany chuckles again, and with both working to dispel the dark thoughts of death, no more mention was made of the fallen Khal and unborn child, "I think Rhaegal agrees with you on that one."

The women look to the corner of the chamber, where two massive wolves lay resting. On top of Nymeria, the green dragon Rhaegal snoozes as well. The two canines perk their ears at the attention the women are aiming at them, and Doreah notes, "Truly, this is an age of magic, with such magnificent beasts gracing your halls."

"Jon says the White Walkers are coming back," Arya notes, "And when the time comes we'll have to fight for our homes and our lives. I think we're supposed to notice things, like Direwolves south of the Wall and Dragons being born."

"Magic coming back into the world," Dany notes, and sees even Sansa nodding in agreement.

"We need to be strong," Sansa says quietly, and eyes turn to her, "After the… incident… father told me why our House words have always been 'Winter is coming.' It's because in winter we need to come together and act like the sigil of our House."

Lady, Sansa's direwolf, lifts itself and pads over to her, resting her head on her master's lap. As Sansa gently pets her wolf, she finishes, "In winter, the lone wolf dies, and it's the pack that survives."

 **\- The End of the World -**

The tree was massive, and it stood over the battlefield like a silent god.

Benjen catches the axe being swung at him by the corpse. A simple kick dislodges the body from the arm, which falls from the weapon with a shake. After that, he brings it up to divert the blade another wight swings at him.

It had been like this for days. Every step towards the tree, starting a hundred miles south and now a mile away, he'd been fighting the servants of the White Walkers without halt. It wasn't so bad, though, mostly because he didn't get tired.

Being dead appeared to have its perks. Not many, but a few.

It was good fortune that none of his enemies had been the masters of the dead, though. It was more likely that he'd lose a fight against them. He may be as strong and durable, but he didn't have the numbers. As it was, with just wights being his enemies, he'd been making good progress with all things considered.

Taking the head off of one of his opponents, he looks around for Leaf. The Child was standing on a mound a few yards away, blasting the wights trying to reach her with magic. He calls to her, "How much further?"

Leaf destroys the corpses around her, then leaps at him. Used to this behavior, Benjen turns away so that she can find a perch on his back as she tells him, "We see the tree, we are but an hours travel away. Three, if the dead continue to pursue."

"I don't think they're stopping," Benjen notes, his new axe shattering an exposed ribcage as his sword takes off a pair of legs.

"I will clear the way," She tells him, and a sudden burst of intense heat heralds the arrival of fire as she immolates the undead charging at them from the front.

Benjen takes the opening, and charges forward, his sword and axe knocking away or destroying any of the wights that try to get at him or Leaf. He is again thankful for the fact that he does not grow tired, or the ten minutes spent moving at an advanced pace in his armor would have killed him more surely than the wights.

"There!" Leaf tells him, pointing to an opening in the roots of the tree.

The former Watchman nods and starts up the hill, ignoring the explosions that the small fairy on his back makes to block the way. Then he hears the sounds of shattering, and he turns back in confusion.

The Wights were falling apart as they reached the hill.

"What?" He asks, looking over his shoulder at Leaf.

"It is the magic of the tree," She tells him, "It protects life, and those who serve it, and slays those who would destroy it."

"But… I'm dead?"

"And yet you still serve the living," Comes a voice from within the cave, and Benjen has to turn to peer into the darkness, "Come, Benjen Stark, we have much to discuss."


	23. Hard Meetings

**Kill the Boy 23**

 **\- The Dreadfort -**

His son was missing.

That was all that really mattered to Lord Roose Bolton, master of the Dreadfort. He'd already lost his legitimate one, and now the spare had gone off galavanting with that whore of his and disappeared It would be very unfortunate if the boy had died, as it would deprive Roose of his heir.

On the other hand, he would lose a violent and murderous monster.

It was not a very easy choice to make. He supposed he could wait until the boy and his whore fucked enough that a second generation of bastard was born. He could take that one, fill the boy with arrows, maybe keep the girl for his own pleasure, and raise his bastard's bastard as his legitimate child.

If it was a boy, a good heir, if it was a girl, he could marry her to the Starks and bring his family ever closer to the position that they'd so craved. He suspected, though wasn't completely sure, that Ramsey had killed Domeric, and that had destroyed his first intention to marry his son to the eldest Stark girl.

Ah, Domeric, that was a son he could be proud of, not this dark fiend that plagued his days with constant trouble. He loved Ramsey as any father should, but he loved him in the same way you would love a wild falcon. It is beautiful, glorious, and deadly.

Not a creature to tread closely with.

"M'lord," the arrival of a servant turns him from his musing and he raises an eyebrow. The girl, a pretty thing that had graced his bed on more than one occasion and was kept away from Ramsey for the service, bows her head and tells him, "There is a giant man at the gates, he has Miranda with him."

"Miranda?"

"Lord Ramsey's assistant, M'lord."

"Ah, the kennel master's daughter, Ramsey's whore," Roose nods in understanding, "Thank you, girl, tell the men at the gates to let the 'giant' in. I will be along shortly."

The servant bows again and vanishes through the doorway as Roose rises. There were two potential choices for giants that he knew of. There was Hodor, the rather simple stable boy in Winterfell, or the Mountain that Rides, who was nearly as large. Neither had a reason to be at his gates, and even less for the whore to be with him.

It takes a few minutes for him to get to the main entrance to the keep, if only because either way he wanted to be fully garbed. As a result, there was at least chainmail beneath his tunic as he steps out into the grey light of the clouded day. On sight, he knows that the giant isn't the stable boy, but the Mountain.

"Gregor Clegane," He greets, and stays a good enough distance away so that if things came to it, he could get inside while his men peppered the giant with arrows.

"It's Lord Clegane, Lord Bolton," the Mountain that Rides tells him, "And I come demanding compensation."

"Compensation?"

"Yes indeed," Clegane has a horrific smirk painting its way across his face, "I had a run in with your bastard, and his little chit."

Roose only raises an eyebrow in response.

The Mountain isn't thrown though, probably came with dealing with Tywin Lannister for so long, "They tried to hunt me, and when all was said and done there were three dead war hounds with the Bolton's flayed man on their collars, and a girl that was only too eager to tell me who her master was once she'd been good and fucked."

Bolton's eyes turn to the girl, and he finally decides to take note of her attire and appearance. She looked like she'd had nothing but a rough fucking for three days. Seeing as that was how long his son had been missing, it was probably the case. She also looked at the Mountain like she had looked at his son only a week ago.

He'd known she had her own sadistic enjoyment in the hunt that she and Ramsey participated in, but it seems she enjoyed it no matter who the victim was.

"And what did the girl say her master was?" Roose asks

"Ramsey Snow, she tells me, bastard son of Lord Roose Bolton," Clegane replies, shrugging, "Now… I wouldn't have taken much stock, if the boy didn't have enough gold to feed a village and bragged about a powerful father. So I decided to stow him somewhere safe while I came to talk to his father, man to man."

"And why is it that you felt the need to talk to me, the affairs of a bastard are not mine."

"True, but I thought you wouldn't mind if I took him off your hands," Clegane smiles evilly, "My guides ran into some trouble on the road, namely your boy and those fucking fairies in the swamp. So I'll need a new one."

"A guide?"

"Aye, I need somebody to lead me to the 'true and rightful king' Jon Snow," The Mountain said the title as though he were reading from a letter, it was amazing, as the man looked like he couldn't even string two words together on a page.

"Then if my bastard has caused you such trouble, I will gladly have him act as your guide," Roose tells the giant, "But ask that he be returned once you have finished with your task."

"Of course, I'll be glad to return him when I'm done," Clegane nods, "I'll need his hounds, too."

"Take them, they are useless to me."

He doesn't like the smile Clegane sprouts, and decides as the Mountain leaves his keep to send a warning to Lord Stark. After that, he would have to call that serving girl into his chambers again and get a spare child in her belly.

He should also see who was willing to marry their daughter to him. Ramsey would probably be dead or useless for making heirs in a week.

 **\- A Mile Away -**

Roose was quite wrong, actually, Ramsey was already unable to give him an heir of some kind. Gregor had taken great pleasure in cutting off the boy's favorite toy before using it with Miranda. The Bolton bastard had laughed at that. It sounded like something he'd have done himself.

Actually, he had, Reek was still around somewhere, probably desperately looking for him. Ah well, the hunt hadn't gone the way he wanted and he was down a cock. Still, he was alive, still had the rest of him to perform, and if the rumors about the King's brother were accurate, pillow biting was going to be in this season.

"Well bastard," Gregor laughs as he and Miranda enter their little hamlet, ten black hounds following sedately. Ramsey grits his teeth at the word, but seeing as he currently had his missing part shoved into his mouth he couldn't exactly object. Instead he tilts his head in question as the Mountain continues, "you are to be my guide, and once I'm done your father has asked I return you after I'm done."

He pulls the boy's cock out of his own mouth and smacks him in the face with it, chuckling, "What do you say to that?"

"Well, I suppose it's too late to say no?" Ramsey smirks.

Gregor laughs.

 **\- King's Landing -**

"Your father is waiting a long fucking time to answer me, Imp," Robert grunts at Tyrion.

They were in the King's solar, where they usually spent the afternoons drinking and debating the politics of the realm. More accurately, Robert would complain and make wildly feasible proposals while half drunk and Tyrion would shoot them down one by one.

This time though, the dwarf was on the same page as the King, "I agree, my father does not take so long in responding to a demand."

"We'd either have an army at our gates or a raven, at least," Robert grunts.

"Indeed," Tyrion nods, "Which is worrying. Varys's little birds have had nothing to add, either."

"What about Myrcella," The King asks, "She's been building her own network, I'm sure she has something?"

"Maybe," Tyrion sighs, "She tells me that she's expecting cousin Joy to visit."

"Who?"

"Uncle Gerion's bastard daughter," Tyrion tells him, "My uncle, not yours."

"I know that!" Robert grunts, he wasn't quite that drunk yet, "Why's that important?"

"Because my father would never allow Joy to leave Casterly Rock," Tyrion tells him.

Robert furrows her brow, "You're implying something."

"I'm implying that my sister is more free than we want her to be," Tyrion tells him, "Joy was probably sent to retrieve my niece and nephew, spiriting them back to Casterly Rock for my sister."

"So what?" Robert rubs his brow, "Do we kill her?"

"No!" Tyrion exclaims, of all his relatives, his cousin was one of his favorite. She was a smart girl, and while it was as secret as Renly's own habits, she shared his tastes. He certainly hoped that she wouldn't do anything rash when she arrived.

 **\- Casterly Rock -**

Sending the Mountain away had been a mistake, Cersei decided.

It was more difficult keeping the Lannisters in order without him around, and now there was open revolt in her own house. She'd managed to block the traitors from escaping, but they'd secured the larder before she or her guards had learnt of the uprising.

House Lannister was tearing itself apart without a guiding hand, but they wouldn't allow her to be that hand. Damned stubborn fools that they were, they still thought that father was alive, or that Tyrion would come to save them!

She'd managed to stop any ravens from leaving the Rock by barring the tower from any access except by her. She'd even had the maester barred, and later had him killed when he objected. The fool had thought that because he had been her teacher in youth that he could make demands of her in adulthood. The rats eating their way through his stomach had disabused him of that notion.

Recalling the pained screams that he'd let out, Cersei smiles to herself. Joffrey would be so proud, her golden lion the kind of man that would make sure that nobody questioned his authority. He would have been so regal, so powerful, so impressive.

If only Baelish hadn't killed him!

He could have been the greatest king in the history of Westeros if that damned Stark bastard hadn't suffered that seizure. She knew he was the root of all of her problems, and that was why the Mountain could not be here to maintain order. He had to kill the bastard that ruined her life.

 **\- Whitewoods -**

Jon took no pleasure in ruining lives, but sometimes it needed doing.

Sitting in his chair within the great hall of his keep, he watched as two knights argued over who was the injured party. Neither had a good reason for calling the other out, one claiming stolen coin and the other that he'd been robbed of his chickens of all things.

They were knights of the realm and yet they squabbled like pups trying to reach the tit. It wasn't nice, noble, or noteable. He could see Ygritte glaring at him from the corner of his eye, his wife demanding he put an end to the farce going on in front of him.

"Enough!" He calls, and the two knights, one a man of the Vale and the other of Dorne, stop their arguing instantly. Jon stands, "It is clear that both of you see the other as the criminal in this encounter, so you will both return what was taken."

"How can I return what I did not take?" the Dornishman asks, confused. He was the one that claimed to have never taken any coin and lost his chicken. The Valeman, the chicken stealer and man who lost his coin, looks equally as confused.

"I don't know," Jon tells him, "But you brought a matter of a chicken and two gold coins to my attention. So you will be escorted to a private chamber where you can settle your dispute. Either settle or stab each other, it is more than I can arrange."

"That's it?" Ygritte asks, confused, "Two hours of listening to them argue in circles and that's all you do to them for wasting our time?"

"What can I do?" Jon asks, "Fools are everywhere, and we have to find ways to deal with them."

"Aye, still damned frustratin!" Ygritte pouts, and he smiles at her.

Turning his attention back to the petitioners, he looks to Ser Gered. The Castelian nods in understanding and waves the next petitioner forward. Jon's eyes widen in surprise when he sees a very unexpected face, it's Robb.

Standing, he steps down and as he approaches his cousin to give him a hug, he demands, "Robb, what are you doing back here?"

"Funnily enough, dropping somebody off," Robb tells him as they embrace.

Jon pulls back, brows furrowed. Robb jerks his head to the side, and both turn to look at the woman draped in a lot more heavy furs than most others around, with the exception of the Dornish. It seemed that the deserts of Dorne were cold at night, they were not as cold as the North, and Dornishmen and women who came to join the Banished Prince soon found three or four layers of furs required to operate like normal human beings.

The woman pulls away her hood and scarf, revealing silver white hair and a soft face.

She smiles shyly at him, and he looks between her and Robb, waiting for an explanation. Robb, seeing his confusion, is happy to help, "Lord Jon Snow, I present your Lady Aunt Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen."

"Oh," Jon blinks at her.

"Greetings, nephew," Dany's smile widens even further as she looks him over, then turns her gaze to Ygritte as she approaches, "And my niece by marriage, if Arya was telling the truth."

"The young one?" Ygritte laughs, "Aye, she can coat a fur, but she wasn't lying about this."

Jon watches as Ygritte and Dany talk, trying to understand. He'd actually been meant to meet with Daenerys Targaryen before his return to the start of things, and here she was. But it was more than that, she was family.

She was family, and she had been before he'd been sent back. He'd had no idea, and now here she was. He didn't know what to do.

He was hugging her.

He hadn't even realized he was doing it, but it was like his first sight of Sansa after dying, his first breath of fresh air after the return from Hardhome. It was relief, a relief that he wasn't as alone as he thought.

He didn't know her as he knew Sansa, or the rest of the Starks, but she was from a side of his family that he knew nothing about. His father and uncle had told him that he had another name, from his Mother's side. Something Targaryen and Valyrian sounding.

But that wasn't who he was, he was Jon Snow of Whitewoods. He had been a Stark through and through, but now he had a chance to meet the second side to his family.

He feels her arms wrap around him in kind, and hears her, "It is good to meet you, Jon Snow."

"It is good to meet you, Daenerys Targaryen."


	24. Blue Tidings

**Kill the Boy 24**

The great hall emptied quickly, Gered shooing out petitioners, servants, and guards before closing the doors behind him. The only ones remaining in the chamber within a few minutes being Jon, Dany, Robb, Doreah, and Ygritte.

Ygritte, Doreah, and Robb share glances, quickly pulling back so that they might leave the Targaryens to their introductions. Jon pulls back from his aunt, a girl that may well have been born after him, and tries to form words.

Eventually, he manages, "You are a sight I never believed I would see."

"I am glad to prove you wrong, Jon," Daenerys smiles, "Though I did not expect you to look so similar to Lord Stark."

"You were expecting me to have more Targaryen features?"

"I was, though I see now that if you had, you would have been discovered."

"Then it is a blessing the Stark in me proved true."

"It is, were it any colder, I don't think I would have been able to make the trek to Whitewoods to see you. Already I feel as though I will never be warm again."

Jon lets out a chuckle, "When we get you a room, we'll get you some decent furs."

Dany looks down at herself, "I thought these were decent furs? Your Lord Uncle gave them to me."

"They are well enough, but they are not as protective as what the Free Folk can weave."

"Aye, it's a wonder you Kneelers can move, you wear so little in the cold!" Ygritte chimes in, already handing the shivering Doreah a big, wooly robe.

Jon smiles at his wife, then looks to Doreah, who he has not met, "My lady, may I know your name?"

"No Lady, My Lord," Doreah bows, "I am companion to Lady Daenerys, her brother bought me while in Lys and I have served her since."

"Bought…. You were a slave?" Jon looks aghast.

"I was, and the Khaleesi freed me," Doreah nods, and wraps herself in her new robe.

Jon nods, understanding.

Dany places her hand on Jon's arm, bringing his attention back to her, "There is more."

"More?"

Dany nods, "Jorah is in the courtyard, guarding my…. My dragons."

"Dragons," Jon blinks, taking a moment. He'd known about the dragons that Daenerys Targaryen possessed in the last life, about how they'd helped her conquer Astapor, then Yunkai, and Meereen last of all.

But even knowing that, he'd forgotten about them. It was in the same manner that he'd forgotten Ramsey Bolton. While the matter of the Bastard had been dealt with, the matter of the dragons had been a distant concern.

 **\- Somewhere south of -**

The Bolton Bastard wished he could be a distant concern. Having his manhood removed was proving far more difficult than he'd expected it to. It was astonishing how much more challenging taking a piss was without the necessary equipment.

He'd even had to ask Miranda for tips, which had elicited a good laugh and a very uncomfortable few minutes as she showed him exactly how to piss without a pecker. If he still had it, he'd have fucked her with it.

As it was, the Mountain was the one having her, and she was enjoying it. He'd always loved that about her, the love of pain. She enjoyed taking it just as much as she did giving it, which is what made their relationship so fun.

Now though, he was dragging the line of a horse whose rider the Mountain had murdered and trying not to think about a naked Miranda, because it seemed that having half a pecker meant that he bled where he used to get hard.

"Bastard!" The Mountain barks, "How far are we?"

"Twenty miles," Ramsey growls, for all he'd been cowed against trying to kill the Mountain, he still hated being called a bastard. Really though, it wasn't even accurate to say that he'd been cowed; he'd been beaten, castrated and enslaved, but he wasn't cowed.

"Twenty miles, one horse, ten dogs, and half a day's light," The Mountain looks up at the sky, exposing his throat. Ramsey's fingers itch towards the dagger he'd taken off of the horse's previous owner after the man had been killed. It wasn't to be his moment though, because the Mountain turns to look at him, "We go another ten, then we camp and make the rest in the morning."

Ramsey nods, and pulls the horse on. Miranda, sitting happily on the horse's saddle, gently plays with his manhood, taunting him.

 **\- Yunkai -**

It was like the gods were taunting him.

Jaime had never seen such excess, all around him there were rich colors, flowing gold, and slaves. It was as though the sheer fact that slaves existed meant that the people who were not among their number needed to prove it to both themselves and others.

Actually, that might not be that far off. Jaime smirks, wondering what Tyrion would say to his deductive abilities.

Missandei was not so amused, "I do not see what amuses you, my lord."

"I had a thought," Jaime tells her, "My brother would approve."

"Do you not usually have those?"

Jaime's smirk widens into an arrogant smile, "Oh, I have plenty, but none to write home about."

"Then what thoughts are so special that your brother would approve?"

"Tyrion, my brother, is smarter than most men we'll ever meet, so when I think of something more complex than 'swing the sword,' I like to think he'd approve."

"I am sure, what thought has made him proud this time?"

"These people," Jaime points out a few elaborately dressed men and women, "Flaunt their wealth and status because they're afraid of being mistaken for slaves."

Missandei raises an eyebrow.

Seeing this, the Kingslayer continues, "They can't really forget that all that separates them from slavery is a few bad decisions, so they do everything they can to reassure themselves that they are better. Take their clothes and slap a collar around their necks, nobody'd know the difference, not really."

Missandei, having listened to his theory, looks about, "I do not believe it wise to remain where we may be heard."

"Why not?" Jaime asks.

"We will incur the wrath of those you have insulted."

"Ah," The Kingslayer frowns, then asks, "There're a bunch of guards coming up behind me, aren't there?"

"Indeed."

"Wow, that's a quick response time, better than they could ever manage in King's Landing."

"They had been approaching regardless," She tells him, "But now a man that overheard you is speaking with them."

"They look angry?"

"They do."

"Think they'll attack?"

"Swords have been drawn."

"Shit," Jaime turns around, and sure enough, there are a group of five men approaching in the usual guard's walk. He raises an eyebrow at them, then turns his head slightly and tells Missandei, "Get our horses saddled, I'll be along shortly."

Missandei nods, though he can easily tell that she doesn't expect him to survive. She'd have been right if he were anyone else, but he was the best sword in the known world. He was the Kingslayer, Jaime _Fucking_ Lannister!

He was also getting help from a boy with blue hair, for some reason.

Jaime blinks as the boy stabs a guard through, then takes the head off of a second before they realize what's happening. The guards turn to the man, and Jaime decides to give his unexpected ally a hand.

He leaps into action, one of the guards turning to face him. Their swords clang together and Jaime pulls back, he takes another step back as the guard swings at him, then slices down then across, taking the man's arm then head off.

The last guard steps back, then turns and flees, breaking into a sprint and turning a corner while Jaime and his new friend catch their breath. After half a minute, Jaime chuckles, then turns to the boy, "Jaime Lannister."

"I know who you are, Kingslayer," The boy tells him, eyes narrowing.

"Oh, an admirer, brilliant," The Lannister sighs, "Well, now isn't the best time, I think. That guard will be back with friends."

"Griff!" Comes a shout, and both Kingslayer and boy turn to see a man approaching.

"Connington?" Jaime blinks. His eyes weren't lying, he was looking at a very angry Jon Connington, "What are you doing here?"

"Not now, Lannister, we need to go!" the formerly dead man growls, then turns to the boy, "Griff, go, get the horses."

"But-"

"We're leaving with the Kingslayer, you can talk to him on the road," Connington tells him.

Griff sighs and nods, then he turns and runs in the same direction that Missandei had.

Jaime and Jon look at each other, then Connington tells him, "We need to talk."

"Yes, but like you told the boy…" Jaime trails off.

The agreement is struck, and like that, Jaime's party grows ever larger.

 **\- King's Landing -**

There is a knock on Tyrion's door near the noontime, and he calls, "Yes?"

"There is a Joy Hill, here to see you, My Lord," His squire calls.

Tyrion smiles, hopping out of his chair and calling, "Let her in and get us some wine!"

"Yes My Lord," The door is pushed open and a girl as Lannister as any other steps into the room.

"Tyrion!" She smiles and rushes to hug him. As they embrace, he can't help but feel a terrible thinness.

He pulls back, "What has happened? Why has my father sent you?"

"He didn't, Aunt Genna did," She tells him, "We think Lord Tywin is dead, Cersei has taken Casterly Rock!"

"What?" Tyrion blinks and pulls back.

"She had the Mountain and his men kill the guard, slaughter anyone that might oppose her, Aunt Genna only survived by hiding!"

"Who's dead?"

"Uncle Kevan and Cousin Lancel were killed by the Mountain, and Cersei has… has done horrible things!"

"What things?"

Joy only shakes her head, and Tyrion turns his attention to the door as it is pushed open by his squire, "Pod, get the Small Council, now!"

The Squire freezes, then rushes out of the chamber. Tyrion sighs, "He took the wine."

Joy giggles, hugging her cousin tighter.

An hour later, and the Small Council sits in silence as they absorb Joy's tale. After a few minutes, Renly notes, "This does not bode well."

"Indeed it does not," Varys agrees, "It is clear my little birds have been compromised, so we have no reliable information except for what Lady Joy tells us."

"Are we seriously to believe that a woman killed Tywin Lannister, his own daughter no less?" Stannis grunts, "Ridiculous!"

"No more ridiculous than some of the other goings on of late," Tyrion notes, "Shit has gone south on more than one occasion."

"Why would she do it, though?" Pycelle asks weakly, probably fearing the certainty of his position now that his main benefactor had perished, "Tywin had saved her!"

"Littlefinger was hired to kill Joffrey," Tyrion notes, "Perhaps it - "

"I don't care what made it happen!" Robert thunders, speaking for the first time since hearing the story from Joy. He frowns when he sees the girl flinch, and tells Tyrion, "Get her out of here, room her with Mycella."

Tyrion nods, and waves for his squire to take the girl, Podrick Payne had been a gift from his father before the old man had left the capital, now it seems that Pod was the last gift his father would ever give him.

"What are we going to do?" Robert asks, eyes aimed squarely at Tyrion.

"First, we warn the other houses of the Westerlands," Tyrion tells him, "Knowing Cersei, she'll be working to consolidate power, probably by getting the children of the Lannsiter Bannermen into Casterly Rock and the cells within."

"And if we stop that, we stop the possibility of this devolving into a war," Tyta notes, "Without their children as hostages, the bannermen will be less likely to answer a call from her rather than the true lord of the Westerlands."

Tyrion nods, that had been his thinking.

Robert agrees as well, and waves him off, "Pycelle, Tyrion, off with you both, I want those Ravens out by the end of the day."

Stannis frowns, perhaps his red witch was right, and war was inevitable. He hoped against hope that his wife's lover was wrong, for if she wasn't it would mean the end of days was upon them, "Pray that they make it in time."

The other two Baratheon brothers turn in shock to Stannis, never having known him to be the religious sort.

Renly puts it best, "Well, we're fucked."


	25. Show of Hands

**Kill the Boy 25**

 **\- Outside Yunkai -**

Jaime Lannister and Jon Connington rode side by side, something that hadn't happened for many years. Behind them, Missandei and young Griff are talking, mostly the young man trying very awkwardly to flirt with the beautiful southern islander, but they were managing to hold a conversation.

Behind all of them rode the Golden Company.

"You've certainly done well for yourself," Jaime notes after the prolonged silence becomes too unbearable.

Jon gives him a look, then smirks, "Aye, I have. Can't say the same for you. Fucking your sister, how Targaryen of you."

Jaime frowns, but he doesn't rise to the jab. He does reply though, using his usual whit to deflect the irritation, "Well who do you think we learnt it from?"

"Hey!" Young Griff growls from behind.

Jaime smirks and Jon groans, "Damnit boy, you're giving yourself away."

"So he is one of the Dragons," Jaime nods, "Where'd you find a Blackfyre? I thought they all died out after the Ninepenny War."

"He isn't a Blackfyre," Jon sighs.

"Then who is he?"

Griff kicks his horse forward to ride beside his guardian, "I am Aegon Targeryen, rightful King of Westeros."

"Oh," Jaime blinks, then a small smile forms on his face, relief washing over him.

"Do you doubt me, Kinglsayer?" Aegon growls.

Jaime looks at the boy, and the smile that plays across his lips is genuine, "No, I don't think I do. I'm just glad to hear you are alive."

"What?" Aegon's narrowed eyes widen in disbelief.

"I am," Jaime asserts, ignoring Connington's disbelieving gaze, "When I killed the Mad King, I didn't know my father had set the Mountain on you, if I had, I would have gone to save you and your family."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not a monster, boy," Jaime snaps, "Nobody deserves the Mountain. He is a sick fuck that should have been strangled in the crib."

"Then why did you kill my grandfather?"

"Because he wanted to burn King's Landing to the ground."

"What?"

"Wildfire?" Connington asks, and Jaime nods. The former commander of the King's forces shudders, then tells Aegon, "horrible stuff, your grandfather enjoyed burning men alive with it. To think he'd do it to the whole city."

"He ordered his pet pyromancer to do it, stabbed them both before the order could leave the throne room," Jaime tells them, "I'm not sorry I did it, not sorry the Targeryens lost their power. There've been more mad men in your family than in most."

Jaime gives Aegon a hard look, and the boy's gaze stays locked to his.

 **\- Whitewoods Keep -**

Ghost watched Drogon cautiously, and the dragon returned the wariness in kind. While its siblings had grown accustomed to the direwolves of the Starks, the black dragon had kept its distance. It hadn't been able to stay very far, having to stay near its mother, Doreah, or Irri the entire time that they were in Winterfell, but it did not eagerly associate with them.

Rhaegal was already on Ghost's back, eagerly making use of the direwolf's back as a mat to sleep on. Drogon gives its sibling a chuck, which is half heartedly answered by the sleepy green dragon.

"How old are they?" Jon asks from the other end of the room. He, Dany, and Ygritte were watching the showdown with interest.

"Months," Dany tells him, "they were born of the fire that I burned my husband's remains in."

"Will they get bigger?" Ygritte asks.

"They should, if they are not confined."

"Conwhat?"

"Trapped in a small space," Dany tells her, "Maester Luwin explained that the dragons my family chained in the Dragonpit atrophied over the generations."

Ygritte narrows her eyes at her, but Dany is looking at Ghost and Drogon. Jon helps her, "They got smaller."

Ygritte smiles at him. Sometimes she despaired at what the southern cunts had done to the common tongue. It was like they wanted to make a mockery of plain speaking, and the so called highborn kneelers were the worst offenders. She knew they talked shite about her where they thought she couldn't hear. The maids were eager to tell her so, they appreciated some plain speak and good meat.

"How big'll they grow?" she asks, "We could use 'em when the dead come."

"The dead?" Dany looks between the two of them, confused.

Jon nods, "Like your dragons, other things are emerging from legend. White Walkers, the Others, they march south to the Wall, and the dead march with them."

Dany raises an eyebrow, but the serious frowns on both his and Ygritte's faces stop her from speaking so plainly as to call them liars, "you've seen them?"

"Yes."

"Aye."

Dany looks between them, and shivers at the certainty they share.

 **\- Outskirts of Whitewoods -**

Ramsay led the Mountain through the people, the heavy furs blocking all of their features. Gregor had killed three more travelers to steal their garb, he was so cold. The big man was a summer boy, no two ways about it. Ramsay and Myranda just wore a layer to protect themselves from the harsher winds, they were children of the North.

"We better be close, boy," Gregor growls, though it is muffled by the layers of cloth over his face.

Ramsey looks back at him, and sees that Gregor is pulling at the cloth over his face, his eyes obscured. It looks like now is his chance. Taking a quick look at Myranda, atop their horse, he was glad to see she was not looking.

He pulls his dagger and thrusts.

"Ahrg!" Gregor bellows, and the Mountain falls back a step, clutching at the dagger now sticking out of his side, "You're going to pay for that, boy!"

"No," Ramsay laughs, and then he dives under the horse and exclaims, "I rather think I won't!"

The eyes of the crowd turn as one when Myranda gives a shriek of pain as the Mountain's massive sword cleaves her and her horse nearly in two. Ramsay chuckles, thinking the fate more than deserving. The girl had crossed him, and watched with enjoyment as he was debased.

It was he who debased, dehumanized, made mockery of the gods, old and new. Sh was now free to explain her own participation to those same gods!

"Oi!" Comes a call, and he sees two men approaching Gregor rather than retreating.

They enter the large circle that has grown around the dead girl and horse. Their killer tears off his hood and growls at the two, "Who the fuck are you."

"I am Robb Stark," the younger of the two returns, drawing his sword, "Who are you?"

"Not the Stark I was supposed to go after first, but you'll do," Gregor snorts, then looks to the other man, "And you?"

"Tormund, you big ugly fuck," the red headed man tells him, then points behind the Mountain, "And that's Wun Wun."

Gregor Clegane turns, and he had to look up to meet a face for the first time in more than twenty years. The giant, Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun, looks down at the tall human and growls, "Whhhhoooo?"

Gregor doesn't answer, instead he leaps backwards. He is going to kill the Stark and retreat, get the fuck out of the frozen North. He'd tell Cersei that…. The Stark was still alive?

Gregor's sword swings over Robb Stark's head as Tormund tackles the boy to the ground. The furred wildling rolls to his feet and growls, "You just dun gone and fucked yerself."

"They only one here fucked is you!" Gregor roars, and swings his blade at the wildling. Tormund jumps back. The massive knight tries to press the advantage, but his sword is caught on his backswing.

He turns to glare, and instead bauks when he sees Wun Wun holding the sword by the blade, the giant growling in pain as he grabs the sword that to any other would be massive but to him was the size of a long dagger.

Gregor drops his blade and moves away from the giant, who drops his sword and swings the now open palm towards him. The Mountain easily evages, and it is clear that though the giant is slow, he has the power in his blows to crush even a big man like Clegane.

Falling back makes Gregor nearly trip over his actual prey, though. Robb Stark's blade slices through the cloth of his furs, but dings of the steel of his plate. Gregor nearly laughs, and he grabs the boy's sword arm. With a triumphant twist, he breaks it.

Robb gives a bellow of pain, agony coursing through him as his forearm is snapped and then twisted unnaturally. He nearly drops to his knees, but the pain that comes with stretching his destroyed arm forces his feet to keep carrying him.

Gregor reaches for the boy's throat, intent on ripping it out, but Tormund is there, roaring in anger. The wildling leaps onto Gregor's back, and the Mountain has to raise a hand to block the red head berserker's blade from skewering him through his own throat.

"Staaark!" Wun Wun growls, and grabs Robb Stark, pulling the boy away from Gregor.

The Mountain growls, intent on hanging onto his prize. He grabs Tormund's blade and pulls, smashing the back of his head into the wildling's nose, then stabbing down at Robb Stark with the sword now in his hand.

Robb, through the pain, sees this, and grabs out. He doesn't grab for the blade, he grabs for the dagger, tearing it from the Mountain's side with a yell. Gregor rears back in pain, tugging at Robb Stark's arm as he does.

There is surprisingly little resistance, and he looks down. He blinks at the hand and wrist in his grip, then at the Stark boy being held up by Wun Wun. Robb glares defiantly at him, his remaining hand holding the dagger Ramsay had stabbed him with and pointing it at him. The blade drips with blood, not just the Mountain's, but Stark's as well.

"You've got balls, kid," Gregor chuckles, throwing the hand on the ground, "I'm gonna have fun cutting them off."

"Not today, you won't," Comes a new voice, and Gregor turns slightly. There is a middle aged man standing there, as well as about thirty Stark guards armed with bow or crossbow. The man growls, "you have two choices, surrender or die."

Gregor sees the danger, and bows his head, "Surrender."

"Get Lord Stark to the Maester, no!" the man calls, and the guards circle Gregor to get to the Stark boy.

Robb Stark collapses, then. He'd given as best he could, but he'd just had his arm broken and he'd then had to cut it off to avoid dying. He wasn't going to be going anywhere for a while, and once Gregor got away from the guards he'd be able to pay the boy one final visit.

He's surprised when an arrow goes through his knee, and bellows in pain as his leg collapses out from under him. He turns to glare, and he sees Ramsay, standing atop one of the buildings not far away, a shit eating grin on his face and a bow in his hand.

 **\- Inside Whitewoods Keep -**

A guard bursts into the chamber, startling Ghost and the dragons. Jon leaps to his feet, "What is it?"

"My Lord! It's your brother, he's been gravely injured!"

"What! By who?"

"A massive man that came into Whitewoods," Gered, who'd burst in, tells him, "It's the Mountain, Gregor Clegane."

"What?" Jon grabs his sword and rushes out of the room, Gered and the women trailing behind, "Nevermind that, where's Robb?"

"Maester Martyn and Samwell are tending to him in their chamber."

Jon turns down a hallway, intent on seeing his brother, "What happened? What did the Mountain do to my brother?"

"He… he took his hand."

Jon freezes, then he turns back to Gered.

Gered stops, takes a moment, then tells him, "The Mountain made a scene, slew a young girl on the outskirts of Whitewoods. He did so nearly right in front of Tormund Giantsbane and Lord Stark. They and Wun Weg… Wun Wun… confronted him. In the fight your brother was grabbed and his arm snapped. From what Master Jory told me, he saw Robb cut his own hand off rather than lose his life to the Mountain."

Jon's face twists, anger and pain for his brother's plight bleeding into him. He takes a moment, "Is the Mountain a threat?"

"At the moment? No, he took an arrow to the knee when the guards took him in, and they were not kind to him. He's in the cells now."

"Good," Jon nods to himself, "arrange for him to be brought to the courtyard in an hour, I will see to my brother, then I will take his head."


	26. Slaughter

**Kill the Boy 26**

 **\- Whitewoods -**

The courtyard was filled, thousands had gathered to watch the execution. It was so packed that many in the back wondered how it would be possible for Lord Snow to clear a space to do the deed. Those in the front watched with rapt attention the small circle of space that was open.

The Mountain stood, as strongly as he could with an arrow still sticking out of his leg. The giant man hadn't had either of his wounds treated, the knife wound in his side bleeding a red stream down his leg and past the arrow that none had bothered to remove.

Like a caged animal, his head shifted from one face to another, moving from person to person. He was looking for somebody, yet none knew who. Even here: beaten, tied by his hands and feet, bleeding, and soon to be without a head, the Mountain that Rides was the most fearsome man that many had ever seen.

Gered Lannister was the only one brave enough to approach him. The lion's golden hair shone with the wet of melted snow as he strode forward, and set a stump before the massive Clegane. Once it is settled, he looks up at the big man and asks, "Why would Lord Tywin send you to kill the Starks?"

"Tywin's dead," Gregor chuckles, and that sets off a thunder of murmurs. Most surprised were the people who had come from the Westerlands. Tywin Lannister had been immortal, unbeatable even! To hear that he was dead was nearly incomprehensible.

Gered raises a hand for silence, and slowly the muttering dies down to a low roar. He narrows his eyes at the Mountain and asks, "Who would dare kill Lord Tywin, surely not you? You have been his loyal mutt for decades."

"Not me," Gregor laughs, "It was that tasty cunt daughter of his."

"Lady Cersei?" Gered rears back, shocked now. The thunder of talking returns as the people assembled learn the assassin's name in waves, "Why would she incite war?"

"Her stupid runt Joffrey's dead, arranged by Lord Tywin, she didn't like that."

Silence falls again, this time for a different reason than shock.

"Then she has incited war for nothing," Comes the voice of Robb Stark from the entrance to the Keep. Eyes turn and they see him standing as strongly as he can, his newly stumped hand wrapped in gauze and held against his chest.

Standing beside him are Jon Snow, Lady Ygritte, and a platinum haired woman that only a few knew as Daenerys Targaryen at this point. Beside the humans stride the two massive direwolves, Ghost and Grey Wind.

Atop the wolves… Dragons.

Whispers break out again, and this time it is Jon Snow who raises a hand. Silence falls again as he leads the way through an avenue made by the parting audience towards the Mountain. He stops in front of Clegane, and the two look at each other. Neither had met before, and neither was impressed.

"Ser Gregor Clegane, you have attacked Robb, of the House Stark, and left him grievously wounded from the assault," Jon tells the knight, "Witnesses also claim that you slew a young girl and a horse before attracting Lord Stark's attention."

"I demand Trial by Combat," the Mountain growls down at the boy.

"Trial by Combat is reserved for those whose guilt remains in question," Jon tells him, not really caring if he's right in this or not. He doesn't know southern customs and he doesn't care, "Assembled around you are thousands who can speak of your attack on the girl, and Robb beside me knows the truth of your attack."

Robb nods solemnly beside Jon.

"You are guilty," Jon tells the Mountain, "But you are still left with two choices."

The noise that had been growing steadily since the start of their confrontation, ceases. It wasn't possible that Lord Snow meant to spare the madman, was it?

"Two?" Gregor asks, looking down at the stump at his feet, "It looks fairly certain which you've chosen already."

"I'd rather cut your head off now, aye," Jon agrees, "But there are more ways than one to execute a man in the North."

"Oh, and what's that?"

"You have the choice to take the Black, Ser Clegane," Jon tells him, "Wildlings that refused to join their fellows on the journey to Whitewoods are still beyond the wall and amassing their numbers. The Night's Watch needs men, and you are one of the deadliest in the realm."

"Jon?" Daenerys looks to him, shocked, "this is the man responsible for the murder of your siblings, of… Robb?"

Her eyes turn to Robb, who had put his good hand on her shoulder, "He is right, Daenerys, any man may take the Black, if they so choose."

The Mountain, and the audience all around them, looks at the two Northern lords like they're mad. Those who had moved from the South fail to notice the approving nods from those who had been born and bred in the cold of the North.

It seemed to them that they had chosen the right man to lead them, a true northern lord.

 **\- The End of the World -**

Benjen Stark was a true northern lord, though he'd given up all titles when he took the Black. His men had respected him, he did his own dirty work and never called for daggers in the dark. He was an honest man, and he could spot a liar.

The Three-Eyed Raven was not a liar, but he was more cryptic than he needed to be. He told Benjen that a powerful greenseer was responsible for whatever happened to Jon when the King had come to Winterfell. He clearly knew who the greenseer had been, and who he was now, but all he would give were hints.

If there was a powerful seer south of the Wall, they needed to know so they could make use of the abilities. They needed to know when the dead would strike, and how strong their numbers would be. The Raven refused to look, because he claimed that the magic of the Night King was strong enough to sense him and act.

Discretion was the key to victory, at least until the war truly began.

For now, the only true participants in this war were the Wildings, the dead, and Benjen himself. He was somewhere between alive and dead, and closer to the White Walkers than he wished to contemplate. All he truly knew of his current condition was that the dead could not kill him.

It had come as a shock, especially as he pulled the sword that slew him from his heart. He'd used the blade to destroy the wight that had stabbed him, then looked to Leaf for an explanation. The Child of the Forest had nodded solemnly to him and explained, "You are born as the Others are, from firestone and death. The dead cannot claim you, only the living can do so."

"The Walkers can't kill me, then," Benjen nods, then sighs, "nor can I kill them."

"The dead are not beholden to this plight," Leaf tells him, waving her hand at the corpse he'd re-killed, "That which is dead will always seek to return to the abyss."

"So will I seek death as well?" Benjen asks.

Leaf tilts her head, "Is it not the way of the living to seek death, in one way or another? It will simply take you longer to get there. As it does for the Others."

"They seek death?" Benjen asks.

Leaf shrugs, "It is the guide to their actions, but they seek it in the living more than themselves. They are closer to the dead than you, and so they hate those who are not as close as they."

"They are angry, spiteful creations of the Children," The Raven tells him, later, "Dark reflections in some way. They were men once, jealous of the immortality that they could never achieve. But when they were given it, that jealousy turned in them, and their leader hated that which he once was all the more."

"The Night's King… the White Walkers were once men?" Benjen asks, horrified.

"Boys, more than men," he is told, "The oldest among their number were First Men who had been captured by the Children. Black magic was performed upon them to make them as they are now."

"And the younger Walkers?"

"Have you ever wondered why Craster only has daughters?"

"No."

The solemn nod makes Benjen all the more horrified for the indulgence that the Night's watch had allowed Caster. Now, more than ever, was he glad that the slovenly bastard was dead.

 **\- Casterly Rock -**

Amory Lorch was a slovenly bastard. Cersei was sure that he'd never had a bath, and then there were his manners. The wretch seemed to be under the impression that because she had bedded the Mountain, she would bed him as well.

She took great pleasure in disabusing him of that notion, and in his screams as his rats ate him alive. The drunken fool had failed her, again and again. He had allowed Joy Hill to escape, he had failed to recapture the main hall and the larder, and he had failed to assemble more than a dozen children.

These children, sons and daughters of the lords of the Westerlands, were her insurance for loyalty. They would serve her well in that regard, and their fathers now knew it. Only a dozen children had been sent before the fat King had sent out the warning to the Westerlands. Now Cersei had Casterly Rock, Lannisport, and a dozen of the closest castles. The rest knew she was not Tywin, and that they had come very close to giving their children to the woman who killed him.

It was civil war in the Westerlands, those who were loyal to her or those loyal to her dwarf brother and their king. She didn't care that those loyal to her were that way mostly because she had their children. She didn't care that Tyrion had tried to reason with her.

She would never let him have the Rock, he had helped destroy her family, helped kill her eldest son, and kept her youngest children from her! War was the only appropriate response to such things.

With that in mind, she had called her banners.

 **\- King's Landing -**

"Is she mad?" the King asks, looking between Myrcella and Varys.

The girl, cognizant that they were speaking of her moth, is reluctant to answer. The Spymaster, in sympathy for his apprentice, does, "It seems that way. News of Joffrey still living has yet to reach her; and it seems with his apparent demise she grows more unstable with each day."

"That can't be the only reason?" Robert asks, "She was always a bitch, and she was ruthlessly smart, how did she go from that to whatever the hell she's trying to play at now?"

He looks around the Small Council chamber, waiting for an answer. He spoke truly, as well; Cersei had never been as insane as her current actions seemed to indicate. Joy Hill's story told a terrifying tale that did not match with the woman they had all known for years.

The first to try and offer an answer is Stannis. He turns his eyes to Pycelle and asks, "How long is the Journey from King's Landing to Casterly Rock?"

Pycelle frowns, then says, "If one is truly quick, two weeks. That was a record, though, made by an over eager Gerion Lannister a few years before his failed adventure into the Doom."

"I doubt Lords Tywin or Baelish would have wanted her causing trouble on the journey," Stannis notes, "Perhaps they had her sedated."

"For so long," Pycelle looks sufficiently alarmed that the others take notice.

"I take it that isn't good?" Renly asks the maester, not quite seeing what his brother had.

"Indeed not, my lord," Pycelle shakes his head, "To keep one addled with any sedative for so long a period would have a lasting effect, even Milk of the Poppy."

"So when Baelish shipped lady Lannister home, she did not arrive as the same woman she was when she left?" Ser Barristan asks, he usually wasn't allowed to these meetings, but they were in a state of war, so Robert was making exceptions.

"Mayhaps," Pycelle nods, "There is no way to know until I or another maester is able to perform an examination of some kind."

"You can perform it on her corpse," Robert grunts, heedless of the wince this elicits in Myrcella and Tyrion. He glares at nothing, saying, "I fucked the Seven Kingdoms right proper when I married that bitch, didn't I?"

"You fucked the Kingdoms all on your own, Robert," Renly snorts, "We're still millions in debt, even with Tywin's death and Baelish's taxes finally paid in full. Thank you for making me Master of Coin, by the way."

Renly had been an easy choice, his ties with the Tyrells gave him access to their matriarch. Ollena Tyrell was many things, and among them was the heart of a banker. She knew how to manage money, and whenever Renly begged Loras for advice, all his lover had to do was parrot his grandmother. It wouldn't last forever, but until the only frugal son of Mace Tyrel, Willas, was back South, Robert's brother would have to do. For now, he just had to put up with it, and Sandor Clegane as master of laws.

"So it's war then?" The scarred Clegane asks, he frowns darkly, "Fuck war, this'll be a slaughter."

"You think it will be easy?" Tyrion asks the man.

"If that letter you received from that northern lord is right, my brother's up North," Sandor notes, recalling that Tyrion and the King had debated over the contents of that letter and the one from Ned Stark saying he'd received the same. The Hound smiles, "If that fucker isn't there, nothing's stopping Cersei's hostages from escaping but a bunch of cunts that think they're killers."

"The Mountain's men are formidable," Varys notes, "Dangerous killers with a reputation to match."

"Ha," Sandor spits a glob into his empty goblet, "Gobshite, those fuckers couldn't think their way out of an overturned wagon. Only reason they were any good at killing was because it was my brother telling them to do it."

"You think their reputation is exaggerated?" Renly asks.

"All reputations are exaggerated," Stannis tells his brother, "What Clegane is saying is that what truth there is exists because the Mountain was at the helm."

"Yer fucking right, that's what I'm saying," Sandor grins, "Little cunts'll piss themselves if they have to get in a real war."

"But like you said," Tyrion sighs, "This won't be a war, it'll be a slaughter."


	27. Bastards and Baby Making

**Kill the Boy 27**

 **\- Winterfell -**

The road to Castle Black had been a long one, and the wheelhouse was almost there. If there was one thing that could be said about Petyr Baelish, it was that the man knew how to live in style. He'd refused to be chained after the party had left King's Landing, arguing that now he was sentenced the only places he could go were North or East.

He'd had no intention of going to Essos, that was Varys's territory and he'd never managed to get as many active agents there as the Spider had. He did have plenty of opportunity in the North, however. Even as a member of the Night's Watch, he would be able to build a name for himself and become more than just some weak black brother.

They hadn't taken his wealth, not all of it, and he had enough trusted lieutenants throughout the Seven Kingdoms that they would follow his orders. He'd have a long talk with the Lord Commander, determine an effective use for his talents, and he would get to work.

Perhaps he would be tasked as a recruiter, like their party's current leader Yoren. The man was gruff and reminded Littlefinger far too much of Brandon Stark, but he was likeable in his own way. The man was honest to a fault, and Petyr always appreciated those men. They didn't have honor and if they meant to kill you, you'd be dead.

Of the twenty men traveling North with them, half were new recruits. Eight were completely irrelevant, but he and the former prince were very interesting company. Joffrey Hill, formerly Baratheon before the reveal of his mother's indiscretions, was a loud and obnoxious boy. He had the confidence of a lion and the bravery of a rat.

"I swear, if we are forced to endure another –" Joffrey's newest tirade is cut by a jolt in the road and a bump forcing him off of his seat.

Petyr smirks as the boy flops to the floor, then looks once more out the window; it seems they had reached Winterfell. The great grey castle bustles with activity, armed men assembling, servants bustling, a true hive of activity.

"Yoren!" He hears a voice he recognizes, Eddard Stark, "Welcome!"

"My thanks, m'lord," is the reply, "I didn't expect this much of a greeting, though?"

"I'm afraid that it is not for you," the Warden of the North audibly growls, "My son has been assaulted and maimed. The North is at war."

"What?"

"The Mountain that Rides," Ned explains, "He rode to Whitewoods, and were it not for my son's intervention he would have begun a slaughter on his quest to murder my nephew."

"Nephew being the banished prince, then?"

"Yes."

"Why the hell'd Tywin Lannister fuck himself right and proper like that?"

"He did not," is the reply, "It was his daughter that started this conflict."

"Mother!?" Petyr turns his eyes from the window to the bastard prince, who was pulling himself to his feet.

There is the turn of a latch, and the door to the wheelhouse is pulled open. Lord Stark stares in and sees the group of recruits. His eyes search for a second before focusing first on Littlefinger, and then Joffrey. With a wave of his hand he calls them out of the carriage.

Petyr is the first to exit, bowing his head, "Lord Stark."

"Lord Baelish," Ned returns. Then he notes, "I'd heard you were too smart to be caught, what happened?"

"Ah, a plan gone awry, unfortunately," Baelish sighs. It was a sting, but it was a lesser assault than most. As far as plans failing went, being consigned to the Wall was a far better alternative to death.

"A plan to murder me!" Joffrey growls, stepping out of the wheelhouse as well.

Ned turns his eyes to the former prince and blinks in surprise. Gone was the thin veneer of joviality, the feigned wit, and the childish beauty. In its place was a boy that would look at home in the company of sellswords and murderers; his hair was matted, his eyes gaunt, and on his limbs were more muscled than had ever been before.

"Joffrey," He greets.

He can tell that the boy fights to hold back his acidic rejoinder. It seemed the boy's time in the black cells and on the road had shaped him into a man that was willing to at least hold his tongue, "Lord Stark, what has happened? What has my mother done?"

"Cersie Lannister murdered her father, took the children of the nearest Westerland Houses as hostages, and sent Gregor Clegane to murder my family," the Stark explains, "Because of this, the King has ordered the banners of the Westerlands, Riverlands, and Reach assembled to march on Casterly Rock."

"But you are mobilizing your men as well?" Petyr asks, "It sounds as though the problem will be resolved well before you arrive."

"That may be so, but my son has lost his hand thanks to her plots, and the North remembers."

"So you're going to kill my mother!?" Joffrey demands.

Lord Stark narrows his eyes and tells the boy, "Aye, she'll die for her crimes."

"What of Jaime Lannister, then?" Petyr asks, "Did he slip the noose as well as his sister?"

"No, he should be alone and away from any aid in Essos."

 **\- Meereen -**

"Your sister, really?" Jon Connington asks, shuddering.

Jaime rolls his eyes, "Oh, please, I know for fact that you wanted to bugger Rhaegar for years, is it so hard to imagine taking the chance?"

A growl and glare are all the reply he needs to set him into a fit of chuckles, "Oh, relax, It's not as though I cared overmuch. I was always just surprised you and Arthur didn't indulge your curiosities because you couldn't have the king."

The growl changes to a smirk and amusement fills his drinking partner's eyes, "No! Really?"

Jon doesn't respond either way, but the smug air he takes lets for Kingslayer know exactly what happened, "By the gods… I'm impressed."

"So was he."

"Oh, gods, please stop!" Aegon, sitting between the two at their round table, puts a hand to his mouth and pretends to vomit.

Missandei, who'd remained quiet up until this point, tilts her head at Aegon, "What is the matter?"

"He buggered his sister," Egg points at Jaime, then his finger moves to Jon, "And he buggered my childhood hero!"

The summer islander frowns, "I am sorry, I don't think I know this word, 'Buggered.' I have mostly spoken the languages of Astapor, and the Westerosi common tongue is not popular among the masters."

"It… uh… it means… uh," Aegon licks his lips, trying to think of a good way to say it.

"Come on lad, tell her what it means," Jaime says, sharing a smirk with Jon.

"Yes, my boy," the elder Griff presses, "Go on."

"It means they, that they…." Eventually, he can't bring himself to say it and pushes his index finger into his closed fist.

"Oh," Missandei smiles, and Aegon realizes he's been played, "Sex is not so sacred on the summer islands, we do not even have marriage there."

"What do you have?" Jaime asks.

"I believe in the common tongue they are called orgies."

 **\- King's Landing -**

Tyrion really hated interrupting the King's orgies.

Robert Baratheon had cut down on his debauchery, thanks to his new queen, but that didn't mean his tastes had subsided. Almost daily he would take his bride, the whore Shae, and a few servant girls into his room and have his fun. It was messy, loud, and if it weren't for the fact that Pycelle had a near unlimited supply of moon-tea available, very costly to the reputation of the realm.

As it was, when the door was pulled open after a Kingsguard knocked for him, he was greeted by the sight of a very naked king at the door, "Aye, what do you want, Lannister?"

"I want you to put on your clothes, your grace," Tyrion tells him, very carefully looking up and definitely not forward, "Or at least a robe."

"Bah," the King waves a hand, but stalks back into his chamber and calls, "Apologies, girls, it looks like I've a Kingdom to run!"

Tyrion and the Kingsguard, Ser Meryn Trant, exchange looks. Neither much liked the other, but at least Trant was a decent swordsman. Half the current Kingsguard were drunken wastrels and Tyrion was very much encouraging them to drink themselves to death so that proper replacements could be named.

"Imp, he ready yet?" Tyrion turns and sighs as the Hound stalks towards him, "We've been waiting fucking hours for the go and I'm tired of it."

"Clegane, that you?" Robert steps through the door, a robe two sizes too small around his shoulder, "The fuck are you still doing in King's Landing?"

"We need you to tell us to fuck off," Sandor tells him bluntly. It had been tradition for centuries for the King to wish the men well on their departure from the Capital for matters of war. Robert hadn't done it yet for the simple fact he'd always marched out with his men if they were off to war.

It'd taken the combined rhetoric of Tyrion, Renly, Stannis, Pycelle, and his wife to keep him in King's Landing at least until he had a true heir on the way. As a result, he didn't have much patience for a war he wasn't allowed to participate in, "Alright, fuck off, then."

He then turns and slams the door closed behind him. Tyrion and Sandor stare at the door, then share a look. The dwarf speaks first, "I'm satisfied, you?"

"Good enough for me," Sandor nods, then sets off to go gut some cunts that thought his brother was the be-all, end-all Clegane.

 **\- Whitewoods -**

"Oh how the mighty have fallen!" Ramsey cackles, laughing into his cup.

The other patrons of the inn look to the strange young man with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. Caked in a month's worth of dirt, blood, and horse piss, the Bolton bastard did not look very nice. He looked barely human and resembled a beast more than a man. If the people of the North had any concept of a hyena, they would compare him to one of those.

As it stood, all they really dared compare him to was a madman. Weapons had been subtly drawn throughout the bar area and the wolves had been called. The wolves, as the people of Whitewoods had taken to calling their guards, entered the bar after a few minutes of waiting in tense silence broken only by the hacking, coughing laughter of Ramsey Snow.

"Alright lad," The lead wolf moves slowly up to the boy and lays a hand on his shoulder, "I think it's time for you to b-"

He crumples, slowly dropping to the ground as the rest of the bar watches in surprise. Ramsey chuckles again and pulls the knife out of the man's eye, "I think not! I'll enjoy my drink in peace I will!"

"You will, eh lad?" The second wolf draws his sword, "not after that, you won't."

"You think you can stop me!?" Ramsey demands, the mad gleam in his eye turning to the guard.

There is the sound of scratching wood as chairs are pushed back throughout the bar, followed by the thumbs of various weapons being set against tables. Ramsey looks around in confusion, then his eyes settle on a wildling woman as she leans against her spear, "I think we can, kneeler."

"Kneeler?" Ramsey leans his head back, narrows his eyes, and now it is clear that he's had far more than he should have had to drink. He looks down at the corpse at his feet and blinks a few times, "Well, fuck."

"Fuck'n right, boy," the wolf growls, "You coming quietly or as dead weight?"

"I think, just this once, I'll come quietly," Ramsey tells him, and tosses the knife onto the table he'd been drinking at. Then he grabs his tankard and tells them, "One for the road."

They watch, some with disbelief, as he downs the tankard and sighs happily, "What a lovely day!"

 **\- The End of the World -**

It was lovely, perhaps even beautiful, so far out beyond the wall. Benjen watched, enjoying this brief moment of contented peace, as the sun rose above the frozen sea to the east. Someday, he'd be able to stay still long enough to watch it go from one end of the world to the other. For now, though, he had a mission.

He'd been tasked with returning a precious relic to the Targaryen line, and to his own nephew in particular. _Dark Sister_ , a Valyrian Steel blade as steeped in legend as the Others themselves. He could not bear the blade, nor touch the cold steel without great pain, so it would be useless to him on his journey.

But it was needed in the south, more than he was needed here to guard the three-eyed crow. Their time together was at an end.

He was to bring the blade to Jon, and to bring a message to Bran as well. Benjen didn't know what the message meant, but the aged scroll that the children of the forest had given him had to mean something. It had to be important enough to lose their guard, because even as he departed he could see that the dead were surrounding the great tree that held the last of the children and the great greenseer.

Shadows pass overhead, and Benjen looks up to see clouds overtaking the sun, smothering it in the wretched magics of the White Walkers. He could feel them approaching, and he could not allow himself to be waylaid by their attempts to stop him.

So he kicked his steed, as dead and alive as he was, forcing himself to look back to the earth and matters that needed his full attention.

A whisper of metal clinking is the only sound in the dead forest, neither he nor the dead inclined to make noise. Then the whistling starts as Benjen starts to spin his flail. The weapon had been a gift from Bloodraven, and now he would put it to use. Fire sparks in the ball at the end, and then blazes to life as he crashes through the first of the dead.

Swing,

Swing,

Swing,

And like a scythe through wheat the dead fall one by one as his steed charges through the frost back towards the Wall.


	28. The Madness

**Kill the Boy 28**

 **\- Whitewoods, Robb Stark's Chambers -**

Robb stared into the fires of the hearth, lost in thought and pain. Each time he tried to move his hand, pain would spike through where it used to be. He'd been crippled, a piece of his very being torn from his body. His only comfort was that it had been his own choice, his own blade, that did the deed. It was his hand or his head, and as bitter as the choice made him he would not regret it.

He had helped bring the Mountain to his knees.

Gregor Clegane would never be a threat to anyone ever again, and for that Robb would be ever grateful. Jon had made the right choice, offering the man the Wall, and Robb was glad that he'd been refused. The Mountain's head decorated the wall of the keep, his body burnt to prevent its resurrection should the White Walkers ever manage to breach the Wall.

But now Robb was in agony. He would never be the Lord of Winterfell to pass judgement, never be the Lord to swing Ice. That honor would lie with Brandon or Rickon, both too young to understand the responsibility but old enough to understand the task.

He wondered how they would take it.

He wondered how his family would take the news of his dismemberment.

"Robb," blinking, the heir to Winterfell turns to the entrance of his chamber, and to Daenerys holding the door open, "Are you well?"

"As well as I can be," He waves his stump, "Not as well as I wish."

"You cannot wallow in sadness," Dany tells him, stepping into the room, she walked over to him and lays a hand on his shoulder, "You must endure."

Looking up into her eyes, he knew she spoke from experience rather than empty platitude. On their journey to Whitewoods together, they'd grown close enough to share stories. Most that she told had horrified him and made him wish her brother was still alive, so he could cleave the bastard in two himself.

But she had endured his torment, years in the care of a monster before being sold to Khal Drogo. Robb could even wish he'd known the horse lord, for a man who could give strength to a girl who'd had none and learn compassion from her at the same time needed to be spoken to.

But both were dead, and here she stood.

"I will," He tells her, but sighs, "Do you know what my father always taught us?"

She shakes her head.

"The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword," Robb tells her.

She tilts her head, "A metaphor?"

"In part," He agrees, "but not all."

"So, you fear you'll no longer be able to swing the sword?"

"Yes."

"And you fear that makes you less a man than your father?"

"I know it is foolish, but I do," He leans his head back.

"It isn't foolish," Dany tells him as she slides in front of him, "You are a proud man, and your father is a good man. It is admirable that you want to be like him."

Robb smiles and almost replies, but she cuts him off, "But you do not need to be."

He blinks, his brow furrowing.

"Your father has his path, and you must forge yours," She tells him, then uses herself as an example, "I am different from my brother, and from all I have heard I am completely unlike my father."

"But your father was-"

"A monster, yes," She sighs, "Perhaps I am not the best example, but you need only look to any House, perhaps even your own, to find examples of sons differing from their fathers."

Robb smiles lightly, "Perhaps you are right."

"I know I am," She tells him, then adds, "Now, for the reason I came here in the first place…"

He raises an eyebrow at her.

"Jon has received word from Winterfell."

"So quickly?"

Dany nods, "Come, he wants to speak with you."

He nods and stands, moving his arm into its sling and following her.

 **\- Casterly Rock -**

Neither Westeros nor Essos had anything resembling the Kangeroo, so in the years to come what was happening in its great hall would come to be known as a Lion's Court instead.

Cersei Lannister sat in the throne of the great hall. Her hair was matted, eyes mad, and her dress was stained with wine. Not even by the most generous of estimates could she be called a sane woman, and history would declare her the Mad-King-With-Teats in the years to come, people loved their titles.

She smiled thinly down at a woman she once loved, her Aunt Genna. The robust woman stood proudly before her niece, glaring up at her. Cersei's forces, after nearly three months of trying, had finally managed to breach the store room. They had found the Rock's supplies decimated, and only Genna Lannister waiting for them.

When asked where the rest of the rebels were, the proud lady had merely replied with, "I'm looking at them."

She'd been beaten severely for that, but still refused to give up her fellow Lannisters. Now, it seemed, only two of the main branch remained within Casterly Rock.

"How do you plead?" Cersei asks her.

"I don't plead, girl," Genna snipes back, "I'm a Lannister."

And that was it.

Genna wasn't given more than that before her niece snarled and waved a hand.

Suddenly, there was only one Lannister in Casterly Rock.

 **\- Lannisport -**

Those few that had managed to escape from Casterly Rock were nervous. They prayed for Genna's safety, though they didn't know her head would already be mounted on one of the many spikes now littering the walls of the Rock. She had been forced to stay behind, her girth too much to fit through the narrow passage they had found.

She had told them to leave, then plugged the hole and opened another passage. The one Cersei's men would search would lead them into the mines, all the way to the bottom before they realized they'd been duped, by which point it would be too late to interrogate her.

Now, the small resistance made of Lannister survivors were making their way through a city that had once been theirs. Now it was a place controlled by a madwoman. They didn't know what had changed Cersei so much, for they all remembered her as the intelligent and conniving woman that had managed to maintain a shadow power over the capital for nearly sixteen years.

The woman that had taken the keep was… not the same.

Years down the line, Maester Pycelle would write an entire treatise on how the mixture Petyr Baelish had sedated the former queen with drove the woman to the brink of madness. Her father had given her the final push.

Eventually, the survivors would be able to escape the city, but it would not be for many months, not until the war was right against the walls that they would have their chance. For now, they scurried from shadow to shadow, and used what little influence they had left to find shelter from night to night.

 **\- Winterfell, the Broken Tower -**

Bran stood at the top of the tower, staring out at the endless rolling hills around his home. His father's host was just at the edge of vision to the south. It would be a few more days before they were completely out of sight, but Bran could feel the absence already. He wondered if this was how he'd felt before.

"It wasn't."

He turns to himself, staring up at the young man he would become, "What was it like last time?"

"Quiet," The Raven tells him, "I was unconscious, or asleep, when Father left to be Hand of the King."

"Father was Hand of the King?"

"He was."

"Like Jon said?"

"Yes."

"So… he died…"

"He did."

"How?"

"Joffrey Baratheon had his head cut off."

"But Joffrey isn't a Baratheon?"

"Not here, but there he was."

Both look to the north, at the slow-moving caravan taking its time on the road to the Wall.

"Things are different?"

"They are."

"Are they better?"

"In many ways."

"How are they worse?"

"Daenerys Targaryen has not fulfilled her destiny," The Raven notes, "She journeyed west, not east. The Free Cities of Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen will not taste freedom for many years because of this. Chains mean to break will never shatter. The Night's King marches, his advance no longer broken by the Wildlings beyond the Wall. Without new fodder for his army, he sees no need to wait. Cersei Lannister, now a madwoman, plans terrible things for the Seven Kingdoms."

Bran stares up at himself, and asks, "Can we stop it?"

"We can, we could change the world if we needed. But here we can act, in the present and the past and the future."

"You can."

"I can only see, and only you can speak to me," The Raven tells him, "I am not real, not anymore. When Jon returned, he rendered all that had been done, undone. The future that happened is… paused. It is not undone, but it is no longer the future that will come to pass."

"How can it be paused?" Bran asks.

"Because if it did not happen, this would not happen," Bran tells him, "The future that was lead to the present that is, and so our experiences have shaped us, even if we cannot recall them."

"I don't understand?"

"Not today, but maybe someday," The Raven tells him, then adds, "Now, enough, mother is looking for you and would have hysterics if she found you up here."

Bran nods, and he begins the climb down to the ground. He almost makes it without being discovered.

"BRANDON STARK!"

 **\- Whitewoods, Jon's Solar -**

Robb pushes the door open, holding it for Dany before stepping in after her. Inside, Jon and Ygritte talk to Samwell. Sam is telling them, "He's not… entirely to blame for his actions, I don't think."

"Who?" Robb asks, entering the conversation.

"Ramsey Snow," Jon tells him, frowning, "He killed one of my men."

Robb narrows his eyes as Dany asks, "how could he not be to blame for his actions?"

Samwell coughs a little, "When he was brought in, I had to take a look at him… make sure he wasn't going to die in the cells, you see… and there were extensive injuries all over him. Untreated."

"So, he was sick?"

"Near fatally so," Samwell tells her, "He's gone mad with delirium and if I hadn't treated what I could we would be burning him rather than talking about what to do with him."

"Why treat him at all?" Robb wants to know.

"Because we need men at the Wall," Jon tells him, "And he helped save your life."

"What?" Robb furrows his brow.

"The Mountain was shot with an arrow in your fight with him," Ygritte tells him, "the mad boy had a quiver."

"How does that prove anything?" Robb wants to know.

"When folk make their own arrows, they tend to have a little personality to 'em," Ygritte tells him, "That boys was all over those arrows."

He's inclined to believe her, seeing as she was the expert marksman and he was accurate to at most a courtyard away. He'd never picked up on the skills with the bow as he had with a sword. Not like Theon, did, at least.

"So, what will you do with him?" he asks instead.

Jon sighs, "I don't know. I _want_ to feed him to Ghost and Greywind, but that is because I have dealt with him before."

"Ramsey Snow is-"

"Ramsey Bolton, yes."

"Kill him," Robb tells him, this bastard would have raped their sister if given half a chance, and he wouldn't let something like that happen, never.

Jon's eyes pierce him, "Is that an order, my lord?"

Robb blinks, and then thinks. He could order Jon to do it, couldn't he? But… if he did, he wouldn't be swinging the sword. He would be passing the responsibility. He couldn't do that, even with his conversation with Dany still in the back of his mind. He sighs, and shakes his head, "No. it isn't. If it was, I'd find a way to do it myself."

Jon nods sadly, then turns everyone's focus to other matters, "Now… I asked Daenerys to get you because I have received a raven from Winterfell."

"What is in it?"

"War," Jon tells him, "Father has called the banners, and they march to war with the Cersei Lannister. You are to return to Winterfell and take up post as the Stark in Winterfell."

Robb nods, having expected much the same, "Is there anything else?"

"Theon is on his way North to provide you an escort," Jon tells him.

"What about you?"

"I am to gather what of my men are willing and what Free Folk will follow, and we will keep the peace in the North," Jon tells him, "King Robert has declared I am never to journey south of the Neck, and Father would rather not anger his friend, so I will be staying to help you."

Robb nods, "When should we expect Theon?"

"A few days, I think."

"I'll begin preparing for my departure."

 **\- Author's Note -**

Sorry I haven't written anything in a few months, I've recently had to move states and get a new job, so I've been adjusting. Hopefully I'll be back to sporadically updating my stories like I usually do.


	29. Road to War

**Kill the Boy 29**

 **\- Whitewoods -**

Theon Greyjoy's eyes traced through the growing northern settlement with interest. Whitewoods had been a living city for less than a year and yet it already dwarfed Wintertown. He supposed it made sense, most of the folk were wildlings after all.

He could see them in the distance, their tent city just on the edge of the town. They would have the experience fighting off the cold of winter better than the southerners that had claimed the wooden buildings, though if Jon was right about the onset of the undead, he didn't think they'd appreciate their tents then.

Leading his men, a small party of twenty, through the town was an experience. Nowhere else had he seen such a collection of people from different parts of the Kingdoms. He could even see some Dornish skin under layers of skins. Poor bastards were probably freezing their balls off.

"Theon!" Turning, the Greyjoy smiles at the sight of Robb, standing at the entrance of the keep with Jon and two women. He recognized Daenerys Targaryen, but not the red headed woman.

Hopping off his horse, he marches over to his friends and gives a brief bow, "my Lords, I am here to escort Lord Robb to Winterfell."

"Welcome, Lord Greyjoy," Jon says, and Theon can't help smiling at being called that, "Please come in and we can partake in bread and salt."

Theon nods and steps into the keep's hall after the rest. There's a table at the end of the room with he food and Jon is quick to pass it to him. After quickly eating it and gaining guest's rights, Theon takes Robb into a big _manly_ hug.

Robb returns the gesture, then pushes him back with his good hand, "It's good to see you, Theon."

"Aye, it's good to see you too," is the reply, followed by a smack on the shoulders, "The hell were you thinking, trying to fight the Mountain?"

"Not trying, succeeding!" Robb refutes, "I'd say I came out the better for our engagement."

"Aye, but you didn't win, did you?"

"No, but I think staying alive is reward enough, don't you?"

"True," Theon nods, then looks down at the bandaged stump of Robb's left arm, "Still…"

"A small price paid," Robb tells him resolutely, drawing his friend's eyes back to him, "I'd give my hand a hundred times to fell a man like the mountain."

"Let's hope you don't need to," Dany interjects, inserting the rest of them into the conversation.

"I agree, my Lady," Robb smiles at her.

"Alright, enough o' this cock-wavin'" The redhead intergects, then steps up next to Theon, "'M Ygritte, and according to Jon you know yer way around a bow."

Theon takes a step away from her, then smirks and tells her, "You're looking at the best archer in the north, girl."

"Girl, am I?" Ygritte bares her teeth, "I'm all woman."

"Are you?" Theon snorts.

"Too much o' one for you," She tells him.

"Oh, and who isn't?"

"Why m'lovin southern husband, here," Ygritte grabs Jon and drags him forward, "Ain't he just so pretty?"

Theon snorts again, this time from genuine amusement, "The prettiest."

Jon just rolls his eyes.

 **\- Winterfell -**

Bran sat at the head of the table. It was a place he was unaccustomed to, didn't feel like he fit at. This was Robb's place, or their father's. It wasn't his. His place was in the Godswood, with the trees. There he felt more at home or had begun to feel more at home since he had started receiving his visitor.

The Raven had been a great help in dealing with the trials of being a lord. He could pay attention when Bran couldn't. He could offer advice that had an extra tinge of knowledge to it.

The Raven was him, only older and colder. Bran didn't want what happened to the raven to happen to him, something the Raven knew but didn't comment on. There was something otherworldly about the elder Bran, something that made him other than human.

He'd first shown himself when Bran was climbing the broken tower a few days after Jon had left for the Wall. Bran had made it all the way to the top, to the little room up there where he could climb in and go back down the stairs. He'd climbed in, then frozen at the sight of himself staring at the floor.

Their interaction had been brief, but it left Bran feeling different. He knew he hadn't had profound thoughts about the nature of reality and the madness that is time before he'd met himself. Not it seemed that every hour he'd find himself dragged into his own head by his warring thoughts. Knowledge he shouldn't have possessed passing back and forth in his mind like roiling waves on a stormy sea.

It was maddening, frightening, and made him wish he could ask somebody for help. The only one he could ask for help was the Raven, though. He could only ask the source of his sickness why he was suffering.

The answers given were always different and never satisfying.

 **\- North of the Wall -**

Benjen Stark felt like a hero of old, a feeling he hated. Astride an elk, it's horns wider than he was tall and carrying a blade of Valyrian steel into battle against the undead. There were legends told of men like himself.

There was a reason they were legendary: it was because if anyone thought of doing it in reality they would be laughed out of the tavern and thrown to the pigs.

Unfortunately for Benjen, the age of legends was returning to wreck its bloody vengeance upon them for forgetting why they were started to begin with. Namely, he now faces a White Walker, perched upon a damnable ice spider.

The horrid creature didn't make a sound as it regarded him with hateful blue eyes. The terrifying creature beneath it stomped at the ground with various legs. The undead behind it remained silent, waiting for the order.

Benjen could try to fight them, face them, and he'd most likely die again. That was why he did the very sensible thing and ordered his elk to drop its head and charge. The massive beast grunted, ducked its horns, and charged at the horde of undead beside their silent master.

The Valyrian blade Dark Sister sings in the darkness towards the White Walker as Benjen is swept past, the ice warrior blocking the blade with its own weapon, a frozen spear. The contact is brief, but the sharp edge of the steel slices a furrow through the spear, though the White Walker is unharmed thanks to its defense.

And then Benjen is past it, his elk either destroying the undead or smashing them aside as it charges recklessly through their midst. After he passes the Walker, Benjen's morning star flies, smashing through the heads of wights that sought to take his steed from behind or the sides.

And so the elk charged through the woods, dragging Benjen closer still to the Wall, looming on the horizon.

 **\- Winterfell -**

Sansa Stark was in heaven, or at least the closest approximation that either of her faiths presented. Willas Tyrell was the epitome of a gentleman; and while he wouldn't be winning jousts for her favor, he would be stimulating her mind and encouraging her hobbies.

The man, older than her by several years, was kind and sweet and wanted her to be happy as his wife. It was everything she'd ever wanted.

He also warned her of the duplicitous nature of the capital, where he would inevitably become the Master of Coin upon his return south. He warned her of the clever lies told to pretty ladies to get their attention, and worse deeds to keep their silence. He pointed to the actions of the Moutain, who had taken her brother's hand. Directed by Cersei Lannister, the Westerlands were in chaos, all because men like Tywin Lannister and Petyr Baelish had tried to play the kingdoms to their own tune.

The capital was a pit, he'd told her. It would be a trial to live there, but she would come out a greater person than she had been when she entered.

It was her choice if she came with him, and it was her choice where they would marry, if they did.

And she wanted to, more than anything else in the whole world; but she didn't know if that was her childhood dreams rearing their head as they had with Joffrey before the truth came out, or if this was love.

She so desperately wanted it to be love. How could it not be?

 **\- The Neck -**

How does one cross the deadliest swamp in the seven kingdoms? That was a question that plagued many southern lords over the millennia as they tried to use the Neck to advance on the North and rid them of their heathen gods.

The Starks had known the answer for centuries, befriend the guides.

"Howland," Ned embraces his small friend, the crannogman returning it with gusto.

"Ned," He mutters, his voice quiet, "It's good to see you."

"And you, my friend. I only wish it were for better reasons," Eddard backs away, laying a hand on the small mans shoulder and squeezing for a moment, "How have you been?"

"Well," Howland, never one to mince words, smiles, "Had children."

"How many?" Ned prompts. It was always like pulling teeth with the woodlander.

"Two. A boy and a girl. Jojen and Meera," He indicates two other small green covered figures among the group of crannogmen that had greeted the Northern forces. They step out and remove their hoods, showing youthful faces.

The boy, Jojen, is clearly the younger and looks like he's seen a ghost. The girl, Meera, sports a smile as she looks at him that he can't place.

"They aren't joining us, are they?" He asks.

"No," Howland shakes his head, "Was thinking… would Winterfell Welcome them?"

"Of course."

The crannogman nods, then waves a hand and the two fade into the group behind them again as they turn around, "Thank you."

Ned places a hand on his shoulder again, "My friend, after all you've done for me I'd not deny you anything."

"You denied the boy the truth."

It was the longest sentence Ned had heard his friend speak in years, and it was also the longest running argument they had. It had stared when Ned took Jon as his own and hadn't abated since. Each time they met it had been a constant back and forth with them, but always Ned refused to reveal the truth.

Sighing, he says, "It didn't matter in the end, Howland."

"No," the small man agrees, "But it should have."

 **\- The Golden Road -**

Marching armies was slow work, and Sandor Clegane was getting sick of dealing with it. The brutish man was tempted to break from the army and march on Casterly Rock himself. It'd take them a month to reach it at their current pace, even longer if they decided to wait for the North to join them.

He understood why they would. He'd need to share a drink with Robb Stark someday; they'd connect over how much of a cunt his elder brother had been. The Starks had a right to be angry at Cersei, just like he had a right to be angry at his brother.

He just wished they weren't so fucking slow.

He also wished he wasn't the man in charge. Whoever thought he should be the one leading men should have had his cock cut off and stuffed down his own throat. He suspected the Imp was behind it, just to spite him for saving his life.

Whenever some dumn cunt had a boo-boo they came crying to him to deal with it, and Sandor was fucking sick of it.

"Alright!" He roars, and the Lord that'd been trying to talk to him backs away, "I don't give a fuck where your tent is! If somebody else is where you want it, fuck off!"

"But-"

"Fuck. Off."

The lord sighed, nodded, and left. He was some stupid crownlander that thought he was better than everyone else. Didn't mean his shit didn't stink like the rest of them. He'd be glad when the finally started killing things. He looked forward to tearing his brother's men apart piece by piece.

Let them see how it felt.

He'd never had a taste for senseless cruelty. He was a killer, in the employ of killers. He did his job quickly, efficiently, and then went and had a drink. Fuck being a cunt about it, if Sandor Clegane wanted you dead, he'd just kill you.

 **\- Casterly Rock -**

An army should be regal, should be imposing. The army that had come to fight for Cersei Lannister was neither of those things. It was a pathetic mess of men; none of which wanted to be there. They knew that Cersei was keeping their lord's children hostage, and they didn't really care.

What did the games of the lords and ladies matter to them for anything other than a swift death? They were going to die because some cunt thought it'd be a good idea to declare war on the entire seven kingdoms.

The reason most didn't even try to desert was because millennia of constantly reinforced loyalty kept their feet planted to the dirt. Their lords hadn't been horrible to them, and most hadn't been cruel. They also knew that if they did try to run they'd be cut down.

They'd be lucky if the first strike killed them.

If they weren't lucky, the man named the Tickler would get to have his fun. Cersei had made sure they knew what that entailed.

So, none were brave enough to try after the first few.

Cersei gazed down at this motley assembly of levies and knights, none of whom wanted to fight for her. She smiled, gleeful at having a fighting force of her own, finally. It had taken her entire life to reach this point.

Dozens of sacrifices, the loss of sweet Jamie, the destruction of her noble House until it was only she that remained.

The sacrifices of House Lannister would not be in vain. She would see their victory snatched from defeat and reclaim her rightful place as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.


End file.
